Slice of Life
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: Sometimes, it's the small moments, the 'blink and you miss them' moments that you remember... A collection of vignettes and flash-fiction capturing the mundane, forgettable, everyday moments in the lives of the Curtis brothers.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a collection of flash-fiction, sketches and other vignettes focused on these mundane, often forgettable, everyday moments.**

* * *

You are sitting at the dinner table dropping your peas into a mountain of white rice.

"Pony! Stop playing with your food!"

You look at your mother, her hair tied loosely behind her head a few wispy strands touch her face.

Her face looks tired, but her voice is strong and crisp.

You are about to open your mouth and say sorry when your mom gets up from the tale and walks away.

She doesn't say anything.

You kick Soda's leg.

Soda kicks your leg.

This is a game the two of you play. You're not trying to hurt each other. At least not _really_ hurt one another. Although that one time Soda was mad at you for taking his pogo stick without permission…

The point of the game is to see who can last the longest without making a sound. The first person who whines or pouts (you) or burst out laughing or making any sort of noise (Soda) loses.

The winner gets bragging rights, the loser gets humiliated, and in your case a vigorous noogie from Soda.

Once, the two of you went through the entire dinner, including dessert, kicking each other under the table. Mom and Dad didn't notice, but Darry smirked at you both and then whispered instructions to you. You figure it's fair that Darry join your side since you're so little and besides Soda's really good at this game.

You have a huge grin your face; you pull your foot back ready to get Soda good now…

"DAMNIT!"

You jump up. Darry drops his fork and looks at you.

Well, a glare is more like it.

You never seen a kid who looks more like a grown up than Darry. He looks like a 12 year old, except when he's mad, he's the spitting image of your mom.

You missed Soda.

You cringe, ready for Darry to kick you back under the table. Darry is big. Soda's pretty easy on you, even when he's kicking you. Except for the time you took his pogo stick, of course.

Darry, you're not quite sure about. You look down at his stocking feet. _Phew._ You're just glad he's not wearing his football cleats.

"Ouch!" Soda yelps.

"That's for teaching him that stupid game." Darry stuffs more ground chuck into his mouth.

You notice that he talks with his mouth full, something he never would do if mom was still at the table.

You halfway want to find your mom and tattle on Darry, especially since your mom already scolded you for playing with your food, but you think twice about it. Darry did come to your rescue, besides you just turned six, you're too old to tattle.

Dad tells you not to tattle so much, but you can't help it, your brothers get away with everything! Mom and Dad never seem to catch _them_ when they misbehave.

You, on the other hand, they watch like a firefly. You can't get away with nothing.

"I won!" You are grinning from ear to ear.

Being the youngest you don't get a chance to win too much against Soda and Darry, even when Darry tries to help you out.

"Hey, that don't count. Darry kicked me. It don't count if Darry made me yell." Sodapop isn't a stickler for the rules except when he benefits from them; in which case he becomes a little mini policeman handing out tickets to friend and foe alike.

Soda glares at Darry, who gives him a disinterested shrug in return. You're afraid Darry is going to take Soda's side.

Which would not be fair. _At all._

"Nope! The rules say the first person who makes a noise loses. It don't say nothing about _who_ made you yell." You give Soda a look of smug satisfaction. Who is he trying to take away your win?

You cross your arms in front of your chest. You're a bit mad. It ain't right for Soda to change the rules just because he lost fair and square.

"Come on Darry, tell Soda that he lost." You're trying not to whine, but Soda makes it hard sometimes.

Darry takes another heaping bite, "you lost, Soda" he says with disinterest. He doesn't care about the game, but that doesn't matter, he's declared you the winner.

Soda is about to open his mouth to protest when the three of you hear the faint sound of crying.

"See Soda, you made mom cry!"

You figure it couldn't have been you, after all you were just explaining to Soda how the game was played, Soda was the one who was trying to say you didn't win.

Soda looks at you and his face turns ghost white and his eyes open wide. You feel like you have a tummy ache and the chicken pox all at once.

"I'm sorry Soda, I'm sorry; mom isn't crying because of you." You don't know what to do, so you just put your arms around your brother.

But Soda just looks like he wants to start bawling. "It's true, I got another D on my report card, that's why Mom is so mad."

Soda sounds miserable as he looks down at his plate, smashing the peas with his fork.

Your mouth drops open. They don't give letter grades in kindergarten, but you know that a "D" is a very bad grade.

"That's real bad Soda."

Soda just nods.

You hope you don't get bad grades when you start first grade. You're excited about sharing lunch with Soda. He always shares his cookies with you, except peanut butter, that is his favorite and he keeps those all to himself.

But you can't think of yourself right now, Soda needs you.

You don't know what to say, so you fling a pea in his direction.

He looks mad, his face bunches up and he crosses his arms.

"What's the big deal, Pony?"

But you give him a wide eyed crazy grin and shout, "food fight!"

Before you know it, the two of you are flinging peas and mashed potatoes at each other and Soda is laughing.

You like to give yourself credit for making Soda laugh again, but the truth is Soda is a real happy kid. It doesn't take much for him to start giggling, even if he was in tears just a few minutes earlier.

Darry has left the table long before, you see him sitting outside your parents' closed room. His arms are around his knees and you think he looks scared, but Darry is the bravest kid you know, he can't be scared.

He plays football.

 _Tackle football._

"Mom," he says, "mom, it's okay, everything will be okay."

Standing at your dining room table, your hair with pieces of peas and mashed potatoes you can't help but think that Darry sounds awfully young, even if he's trying his best to sound as soothing and as grown up as your father.

You think about your dad, working the evening shift at the warehouse. You miss eating supper with him.

You're grateful that Darry stuck up for you, but he's not your dad.

Not by a long shot.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns**


	2. Gymnastics

**A/N: Since the last two chapters of My Brother's War were kind of intense I decided to take a break and publish this completely plotless vignette:**

* * *

Darry is what you call a "football prodigy," at least according to the football coaches at Eli Whitney Junior High, and they recommended he take a gymnastics class over the summer. I didn't see how doing a bunch of tumbling was supposed to help him play football, but it turned out Darry was also a "gymnastics prodigy."

When he wasn't helping Dad around the house, Darry was playing football and when he wasn't playing football he was performing his new acrobatic tricks in our front yard. He flipped, twisted and cartwheeled his way across our yard that summer. As he did with his football plays, he named each of his gymnastic tricks.

My favorite was the "fake tornado"-Darry would start out doing a half-twist, but just as he got in the air turned it into a regular flip.

I thought I would be cool if he did the opposite move: start out doing a regular flip and end up doing a half-twist instead. But Darry crossed his arms and told me in a whispered voice that he couldn't.

It was the first time my brother ever admitted to me that there was something he couldn't do.

"I'd break my neck, Pony. I'd probably die."

Darry holds his hand to his chest and falls forward a few steps in a dramatic gesture.

For a kid who was typically so understated and serious, Darry could be a real ham sometimes.

"Hey if you break your neck can I get your baseball cards?!" Soda, who was trying (and failing) to do a headstand, piped up.

"You're hilarious Soda, a regular laugh riot," Darry rolled his eyes.

Soda, sprawled over the uncut grass, just shrugged and let out a laugh.

Soda and I both tried to do our own gymnastics. Soda, though, would get too excited and ended up flopping around like a fish out of water. He always laughed though, even when ended up face first in a pile of mud.

"Wait, I'm gonna do it this time!" But his enthusiasm never matched up to his ability, because once again he would end up flat on his face.

As for me, I had the opposite problem. I would start off running, but just before I was about to jump in the air and flip, I started to get real scared and ended up chickening out.

"Pony, you just gotta give it a try, if you get scared you're going to fall." I looked up at Darry, easy for him to say, he was big and strong; people always mistook him for a high school student even though he was only 12.

I tried again.

I would screech to halt. Soda's best friend, Steve Randle, thought this was hilarious and would point and laugh at me. "Nice flip there!"

"Shut up!" I shouted, hot tears of embarrassment running down my face. I hated embarrassing myself in front of anyone, but especially in front of Steve.

Soda got between us, "cool it guys," he told both of us, but I noticed that he was looking at Steve.

"Yeah, shut your trap, Steve," Darry punched Steve in the arm, not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to get the point across. Steve would scowl at Darry and then go along to play with Soda, wincing and still holding his arm.

I noticed that Steve never laughed at Soda when he fell, just me.

With Steve's back to me I gave him a shit eating grin, it was nice having big brothers.

* * *

 **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Thank you so much for all reads, reviews, follows and favorites, really means the world to me. :)**


	3. CD Goes to Clown Camp

_Where do fluff pieces go when they die? Here! My life has been sorta hectic as of late and will probably continue to be hectic for sometime. I'm not sure when I'll be able to focus on my chapter fics._ _I feel bad because I'm horrible when it comes to updates and I've been having some real trouble either writing my chapter fics or feeling satisfied with the results._

 _But, I saw this fluff piece I had on my computer, decided to expand it, and voila,here it is. It isn't my best, but it is what it is, and I do hope you enjoy it, and the awesome Billy Curtis._

 _For those who don't know, Karen, C.D. Billy and Tommy are Darry and Cathy's kids._

* * *

My brother Carlson-Darrel, whom we call C.D. is the most interesting guy I know. He's also the craziest guy I know, which goes long way to explain his first attribute.

One time, Mom and Dad told C.D. and Karen that they could pick a two-week sleep away camp. Tommy and me were already going to Boy Scout camp and had a summer of baseball to take up our time.

Karen decided right away she wanted to go to some fancy tennis camp, but that wasn't a surprise, Karen's a real talented tennis player. Ever since she watched a T.V. special about Billie Jean King beating Bobby Riggs she wanted nothing but to become a tennis player and hasn't looked back since. Even her pupils reflect tennis racquets.

My sister ain't what you would call a feminist, except when it comes to women in sports. Wanna make Karen mad, tell her she hits like a girl, then she'll really show you what 'hitting like a girl' means.

And man alive it ain't pretty!

My parents smiled and nodded when Karen told us her decision, it was easy, Karen is easy. Then came C.D.'s turn.

He grabbed his fork, twisted some spaghetti on it, drew it close to his mouth and before the silver prongs could touch his tongue, pulled the fork out of his mouth and the rug out from under Dad.

"Clown camp." He stared right at Dad, not blinking.

I immediately thought of my brother with a curly rainbow wig, a honkin' red nose and big floppy shoes, and I almost pissed myself laughing. Then I pictured him honking his nose like Dad honks the car when we're running late and that really almost made a mess outta me.

I had no freakin' clue they even had clown camps. I ain't trying to sound mean, but how the hell do you need a camp to learn how to be a clown? It ain't exactly rocket science.

The problem with what C.D. said wasn't exactly what he was proposing, but how he proposed it, with a shit eating grin. He can't help it, even when he's sincere about something he tends to wear this self-satisfied smirk which makes people either doubt his sincerity or makes them sincerely believe he's an ass.

Dad, his fork still in his hand looked straight at C.D. and told him, "hell no, I ain't spending my money to send you to a damn clown camp you don't even wanna go to."

Mom gave Dad her big, warm grin and reminded Dad of two things, one technically it was 'their' money, not just his and two, he owed the swear jar a dollar. Then she told C.D. in an even voice, 'we'll think about it.'

C.D. gave our father such a shit eating grin that I wanted to wipe it off his face. It was, a non-verbal 'fuck you' louder than any of Dad's bellowed shouts.

Dad ignored C.D. but grunted and muttered under his breath something that I couldn't quite make out, but I bet it woulda cost him way more than a dollar. But when he came back from the kitchen where the swear jar is kept, he leaned over Mom's shoulder and he gave her a long, deep kiss in her mouth. Garlic bread was exchanged.

That's the thing about my parents, they rarely display PDAs and even among our extended family, holding hands is the extent of it, but when it's just our family, they're all over each other.

They completely ignoring the gawking looks of disgust on three of their four offspring. Karen was too busy pouring herself more iced-tea.

"Ewww! I just lost my appetite." Tommy cried out, he was still at that age where kissing girls meant death by cooties. Dad only harshly ruffled his hair, "yeah kiddo, you say eww now but you wouldn't be here without some kissin' action, Tom Tom Club." He winked at Tommy, using Uncle Soda's pet nickname for my little brother.

Looking like he was gonna gag, and not that I could blame him, C.D. pushed his plate away from him, "well, that's it; I'm staying a virgin for life."

It was Karen, who had been quiet this entire time, looked up from her drink and said "I'll call the newspaper."

Mom hid a smirk, Dad led out a small chuckle, C.D. scowled.

My brother is short, one guy called my brother, 'a scrappy little fella' and that 'scrappy little fella' landed all over that guy. That poor guy probably thinks my brother is insane, but C.D. would probably take that as a compliment!

The worse was our sweet, kindhearted Grandma calling C.D. 'petite.' C.D. couldn't open a can of a whoop ass on sweet Grandma Carlson, so he spent the entire visit sulking. He's stubborn. He forgave her after she gave us a tin full of her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies to take home with us. She's a real good baker.

While we're on the subject I gotta say, Grandma Carlson is wonderful. Some years ago us kids went to the TG&Y to buy Grandma a mother's day gift, and boy did we pick one. We got her this housecoat with sequined flamencos all over it, and a huge pink fluffy feather collar. The best part? Right on the chest in hot pink piping it read in cursive, "Florida or Bust."

Mom's mouth dropped open. Dad nodded and told us that he was sure Grandma would love it, quickly excused himself and we could hear his loud laugh all the way in the kitchenware aisle.

I don't need to tell you that it was C.D. who picked out the housecoat and strong armed the rest of us to agreeing with him. It was up to Karen we would have bought her a "World's Greatest Grandma" mug.

But you know what? Years later Grandma still wears that tacky monstrosity every time we visit her, even though the feathers are practically molting off.

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

I don't want to embarrass my brother, but I gotta tell y'all this story. A while back Great-Grandma Baker was living with Grandpa and Grandma. Well, Great-Grandma Baker had dementia and she kept on messing up all of our names. Some of it wasn't bad, she called Dad Darren, Tommy became Timmy, I was Willard and she confused Cathy and Karen all the time. But C.D.? Well for the life of her the poor woman couldn't remember his name even though his name was by far the easiest to remember.

No, for some reason she thought his name was Huey. I learned two things: one, our cousins loved calling him 'Baby Huey' and two, C.D. has no reservations about beating the snot out of family members.

My brother's size is a sore subject for him. But it doesn't stop him from having a whole bunch of girls follow him around like he's a rock star and they're his groupies. And, I gotta say, when it comes to and sex, despite his joke about being a virgin for life, he lives the rock n' roll lifestyle. Which is funny cause not long ago he was barely interested in girls and hardly even kissed one.

Now he's got himself as rep for being a player.

I get whiplash from all the girls he dates. Course some of them are more one-night 'study sessions' where the only thing being studied is advanced anatomy, if ya'll get my drift.

Now you'd think that would send our Dad through one of the roofs he used to build, but nope, he actually took C.D. to the drug store to buy a box of condoms. I know that was far more humiliating for C.D. than if Dad blew up at him.

And if C.D. knocks up some girl? Then Dad will _really_ open a can of whoop ass on Baby Huey.

But Grandma is right, C.D. is petite and most people will assume that he doesn't have a snowball chance in hell of not getting his ass pulverized in a fight. They're dead wrong. He's got no form, no technique, but he's crazy out there. He's so crazy that he's thrown much bigger guys for a loop and can usually get in a few good blows before the other guy can figure out what the hell is going on.

You could almost say that he's _scrappy._

Like my brother, there's no middle ground with his fights. There are some times where he pummels the other guy, really makes them go through the wash and rinse cycle, you know? While C.D. emerges from the fight looking no more worn out than if he did a good run through Woodward Park; red in the face and breathing hard, but no worse for wear.

And they'll look at my brother, who is showing off his trademark shit eating grin and shake their head in bafflement that such a little guy could knock them silly.

But he doesn't know when to back away and eventually the other guy will see his weakness and jump on top (yeah, on top, C.D. would totally make a joke right here) and C.D. is shit out of luck, his clothes torn, nose half busted, two black eyes and that ain't even the worst of it.

Unfortunately for C.D. the latter scenario happens with alarming frequency.

Mom hates fighting, but Dad's from a different school of thought, as long as you fight fair and honest and have no choice, he sees nothing wrong with throwing a few punches. Even told Mom, "the way I see it honey, you gotta let the boys land and take a few punches, or else it might fester."

Mom, putting a box of frozen peas on one of C.D.'s black eyes muttered that right now her baby could barely _see_ anything.

He tried to teach us boys how to fight, he's got some good moves, but C.D. refuses to heed his advice. Even though a love of fighting is one of the few things they have in common. Like everything, my brother does it his own way.

I'm a big guy. Okay, I'm gonna be honest with y'all, I'm fat. It's usually not that big of deal. It bothers me sometimes. A year ago or so Dad asked me I wanted to work out with him at the gym, I said yes since I don't like letting people down, but the whole drive I felt like a real chump. A fat chump.

Great, I thought glumly, Dad wants his fat ass son to lose a few pounds, that's why he invited me and only me to go the gym with him.

I looked at my dad who still had washboard abs and the physique of the high school quarterback he was once, and down at the blubber of fat around my mid-section.

Dad though, knew exactly what to say, "You know Billy, I invited your brother and your sister to join us at the gym too."

Sometimes I find it real weird that Dad knows exactly what to say to me but has no idea how to speak to my brother.

Anyways people assume because of my size, I'm also tall, I must love fighting. But I don't. I'll never chicken out, but I still hate fighting. If someone has a beef with me, I usually just ignore them, that annoys them more than anything. But, if someone messes with my family? That's a whole different ballgame. But I don't intervene in C.D.'s fights cause he'd be embarrassed as hell that his little brother had to get him out of a jam.

The best is watching him argue with someone, cause damn do those firecrackers go off then! C.D. is smart, has no scruples and he's as hot headed as they come. Oh yeah, he's also funny as hell. I'm serious.

All those qualities, even his humor, get him in a lot of trouble. Hell, I ain't gonna deny that on rare occasions I've been on the receiving end of his insults. It's a blast, and I'm not being sarcastic either. My favorite: "aborted Southern pig-tailed macaque turd." The best part, was how he snuck turd on at the end, like an afterthought.

I cracked up so hard, I accidently knocked him over and both of us crashed into the bathroom, busting the door. Boy, were my parents pissed. Of course, they had every right to be. I offered to pay for it, cause it was my fault, but Dad made us both pay up.

My brother, he likes making people laugh, but he doesn't laugh much himself. He also really hates it if other people laugh at him.

But all I gotta do is just say 'macaque' and his face will turn almost purple trying not to burst out laughing. C.D., as stubborn as he is, can't resist and he'll crack up like a nut job. It's funny as hell watching him.

Karen will look at us like we're off our freakin' rockers. Tommy will laugh cause he doesn't like being left out. I'll try to remember to share a joke just between us later, so he doesn't feel so bad. Mom and Dad will shake their heads, grateful that no one swore or told a dirty joke. Oh yeah, my brother is an expert on both those topics.

Some of the jokes he tells, well believe me, I ain't no prude, but man, he's got a dirty mind!

Tommy of course is always tattlin' on C.D. he thinks everything is a swear. Man, I love him to death, but little kids can be real uptight about everything, "mom C.D. is cursing! He said abortion!"

C.D. yelled right back at Tommy, "abortion isn't a swear, doofus, besides all I said was that you _look_ like a botched abortion, that's a scientific fact, _Uncle_ Tom."

Now, I'm not exactly being fair to Tommy, yeah he tattles, but he's gotten a lot better. He's a real fun kid. I mean it. He loves playing practical jokes on people, especially our cousins Daphne and Paige. When he was real little he used to chase Daphne around the yard, throwing worms at her. But when it comes to crazy, Daffy has got him beat, before we knew it, Daphne even though she's smaller had him in a choke hold and had double dog dared him to swallow a live worm.

And you can't say no to a double dog dare, you just can't.

Then Daphne did the same thing, rubbed her stomach and said, 'hmmm it's absolutely delightful, don't you think so, Thomas?'

Well, Tommy hated the taste of the worm, but he wasn't about to be outdone by Daphne, so he too plopped a second juicy worm straight down his throat. This one though wasn't a small itty-bitty thing, but a big honking juicy worm. The Mack truck of worms.

Unfortunately for Tommy that worm didn't agree with him and he puked worm guts all over his shirt.

Daphne looked like she was gonna get sick, and that's when Tommy saw his opening, he took off his worm-puke covered shirt and began chasing Daphne around the yard, flinging it at her, spraying our cousin with tiny particles of worm guts and Uncle Pony's potato salad.

Daffy might be crazier, but when it comes to being the gross out king, that title is all Tommy's.

Watching my brother argue with classmates, guys from school, even authority figures, can be fun. What isn't fun? Watching my brother and my Dad argue. Cause if my brother is the most interesting guy I know and the guy I've idolized ever since I was a little kid, my Dad is my hero.

My dad's parents died when he was twenty and he raised my uncles, which I think is real heroic of him, but even beyond that, he's a real good guy. Yeah, he's strict, a lot stricter than my Uncles are with their kids, but if you're respectful and listen to him, he's a lotta fun. He'll do anything for us.

I gotta take a break here and say to be fair, my cousin Paige insists her dad can be strict with her and Daphne at times, and my cousin Patrick says Uncle Soda has a huge temper at times as well. But having spent time with both my dad and their dads, I gotta say when it comes to old school parenting, Dad is the undisputed champion.

He also takes us camping or fishing, or out to see his construction sites, although I'm the only one who really likes it.

The problem is C.D. doesn't like to listen and Dad is too stubborn to see that a lot of times C.D. has a point.

It's only when they argue that my stomach will sometimes turn in knots. They both go after each other like Kamikaze pilots, neither one giving up an inch. I never tell them that though. Like so much in my life, I keep my secrets locked up for no one but me.

Even though they don't always see eye to eye they both have the same stubbornness, same temper the same inability to yield a point. And I love both of 'em to death. It would be easier for me if I could pick sides, but I can't. They both make a lot of sense, even when they're arguing from two opposite sides.

Dad was almost about to concede the point and let C.D. go to clown camp, even though, as he pointed out, C.D. never expressed any interest in being a clown before, when Mom found how much clown camp was gonna cost and almost blew a gasket. "C.D. we're not spending all of this money for you to learn how to squeeze yourself in a VW Bug with twenty other people."

But C.D. wouldn't budge. Mom came up with a compromise, they would spend as much money on C.D.'s camp as they were on Karen's and he would have to pay for the rest. For the next month my brother, who is kinda a lazy ass, busted his lazy ass by mowing lawns, delivering papers, doing errands. Even Dad was impressed. Smiling and shaking his head with admiration watching my brother try to lug a bag of mulch bigger than him across the neighbor's yard. It was nice not seeing them tear each other apart for once.

I just wish Dad would tell C.D. that he was proud of him, even if C.D. wouldn't have believed him.

I offered him some money I had saved up, but he wouldn't take it. He's got pride, but he also knew I was saving up to buy a new catcher's glove. He's a good guy.

C.D. went to camp and sent all of us, even Tommy and Dad, postcards. Of course his postcards were really inappropriate and really, really funny. Man! Did I bust my ass laughing. I still got them somewhere. When he came home it only took about a day and half until him and Dad were at it again. I asked him about clown camp and whether he could juggle or make those balloon animals, he just shrugged. "Nah, I didn't even want to go, it was more about winning the argument against Francisco Franco downstairs."

Like I said, my brother is stubborn fucker.

The next day when I woke up I saw a crudely made, but recognizable balloon monkey staring at me. "Rise and Shine Aborted Southern Pig-Tailed Macaque TURD" written across its chest.

* * *

I don't own The Outsiders, I'm sorry. I do own C.D , I'm sorry. ;)


	4. By the Dawn's Early Light

Another slice of life, vignette.

* * *

I hear a dog bark.

Which would be fine, cept we don't have a dog, and neither do our next door neighbors.

Waking up I rub heavy, sleep crusted eyes and remembering the last place my hands were before I drifted off into a too short but glorious dream about me and my girl, yank sweaty hands off my face.

Linda's headlights are twice as big in my dreams as they are in real life. Is that normal? I dunno, but hell, I like it.

Mom is sleeping, she's a sound sleeper. I'm not. I hear every scary ass shit sound that vibrates through my room like it's a Roman Colosseum. Since Dad left for Texas every nocturnal noise causes my ears to perk up like a bloodhound's.

I don't have a gun in my room, but I know where Dad keeps his. And I'm a good shot.

Least I'd be a good shot if we got robbed by a bunch of ducks. People? Well no one in my family's ever shot a person, except Uncle Pat and Uncle Daniel in the war and Uncle Pat doesn't speak about it and Uncle Daniel can't. He was eaten by a shark in the south Pacific.

Most of the time when I hear the unwanted noises, I move a few inches, raise my head about half an inch off my pillow, and over the sound of my heartbeat, the real culprit emerges. I hear the crickets, the tree frogs, the squeak of late night tires whipping against tar and gravel. I hear every damn shout and coarse curse from a night of too much drinking and hell knows what else that comes from the Cade home.

Once I know the sound ain't nothing to be concerned about, I pull my thick pillow over my head, pinning my ears under layers of cotton and feathers. Sometimes willing myself to go back to sleep, other times imaging the thick, warm pillow is Linda's tits and I'm snugged between 'em.

Those dreams are nice. Real nice.

But tonight, even as I push the pillow so tight round my ears I can only hear the soundwaves from deep inside my inner ear, the barking continues.

Turning on my side so my left ear, my better ear, is pressed against Linda's pillow tits I will the sound to stop; a trickster the sound only grows louder, and it feels like it's coming from inside of me. Like a waterlogged ear, except instead of the swoosh of hot shower water I hear the steady bark of a dog.

Great, I press my fingers against my aching temple, I'm losing my mind.

Being the man of the house, I rub my dirty hands against Dad's old Haines shirt and my gray "Y" sweats and stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on Dad's old work boots, now mine, now with their toes stuffed with cotton pulled from Mom's cabinet.

My eyes fully dilated with hyper vigilance dart across a darkened hallway making out the edges of family photos and a frame containing a swatch of a Schmidt family quilt. My body, half-dead with sleep lumbers far behind. My calf muscles are still in bed, still wrapped around Linda's warm, ghost body.

I stagger, bumping into shadows of shadows. Our house don't have much in the way of furnishings, but we sure as hell got a lot of shadows.

The crack of light peeking through the kitchen window takes me by surprise. My eyes blink, adjusting to a light I don't expect. It's already morning and I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

I figure no one's gonna rob us in the morning; not only are the neighbors up, but the robber can see we don't got nothing worth taking.

Mom always tells us that worn furniture has a lot of 'sentimental value' that there's a story behind every torn piece of fabric. That sounds all hackneyed to me, like when Mom tells us that our messy and useless Mother's Day ceramic candy dishes we made in elementary school is the best gift she'd ever received. Every 2 or 4 years she receives the best gift ever. Our house is dripping in sentimental value.

She always points out a small fingernail size crack in the coffee table, where I chipped my baby tooth. The coffee table is so old now, I can't even find my crack among all the other cracks, slivers and bruising that table's taken over the years. Mom tries to tell us that what we have is worth more than money, but I've never heard of any guy arrested for stealing stuff cause it has 'sentimental value.'

That's when I see it, the cause of all the ruckus. The white-grey light of our T.V. set. _The Adventures of Rin-Tin-Tin_ is on. I interrupted my dream about Linda for a stupid kiddie show?

Christ.

Soda and Pony are lying flat on their stomach, naked except for their Haines. They both got the exact same pose, their feet up in the air, their chin in their hands. They're so close to the T.V. I'm surprised they're not getting shocked by the static.

What the hell are they doing up so early on Saturday? The boys were up late last night, 'til Midnight. It was the first time Pony's been up late enough to watch the sign off. As the National Anthem played, Soda did a messy headstand, bending his legs, slamming his feet into our couch, adding even more 'sentimental value' as Mom would see it, to our comfy, but ratty looking couch.

Pony stood up and put his hand on his heart, mouthing the words with an earnest, if tired gaze. Patriotism is for the young.

I didn't even realize Soda was paying attention until he shout-sang "and the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air!"

I shushed him, telling him not to wake up Mom. He gave me the finger. I was too tired to do anything but keep it locked in my bank of ways I've been wronged and screwed; I'll cash his check later.

I tried to hide a yawn, embarrassed that I was so tired and counted down the seconds until the sign off, while my kid brothers, even Pony, looked like they could stay up for at least another hour.

With only the light of the television and my eyes still adjusting to the severe prisms of light and shadow, Pony's hair looks almost as light as Soda's. Soda's kinda slouched, and that makes him look almost as small as Pony.

I blink. I can hardly tell 'em apart.

Soda's underwear is seeping down, and from what I know about the law of physics, this is one battle he ain't gonna win. Already, I can see the top of his butt crack peek through.

"Shit, Soda pull up your drawers, I ain't wanting to see no ass crack at this time of morning."

I surprise myself.

Not only how easy my words disciplining my little brother flows out, but how much I sound like dad.

Even right down to the accent. The southern drawl in my voice isn't as thick as my Dad's or even Soda, who kinda sounds some sleepy-eyed cowboy just moseying his way through our lives; even as his physical body is like a tornado, always twisting, running, bumping and colliding into everything.

I've never met anyone who could talk so slow but move so fast as my brother.

He pulls his underwear down further, covering up a smirk with his palm.

"Least you can't _smell_ his crack!" Pony pipes up, plugging his nose, he giggles at his own quip like it's the funniest thing in the world. I'm surprised Pony doesn't pull his underwear down a bit letting his own crack show.

He's always aping Soda.

But his underwear is pulled up all the way. It's almost comical, he looks like a little old man.

I roll my eyes, though my mouth is curled into a slight grin.

"Oh, you wanna smell my crack You wanna smell my ass? Okay!" Soda's laughing, but there's a hollowness in his laugh and before I know it he puts his tanned, scar-covered knee on the only part of Pony's back untouched by sunburn or the faint golden tan line, pinning him to the ground.

I watch, a disinterested referee; I know Soda would never really hurt Pony, but I'm a bit taken by how swiftly he pinned Pony down, the force by which he grabs his wrist and pulls them behind Pony's head.

Even in the skeevy light of dawn I can tell it's gonna leave a temporary mark.

Against Soda, Pony don't stand a chance.

Soda's never been a meek kid, but ever since Dad left for Texas, he's been even quicker to strike a blow over the littlest thing. Even Pony, who Soda loves more than anyone or anything, isn't always safe from his temper.

Pony grits his teeth and he kinda looks like I do when I'm angry. I never noticed that before. But even though he's at the disadvantage, he refuses to wuss out or to cry uncle.

He doesn't give up. He could join my old Pop Warner team, if his build wasn't so damn puny.

Watching him under the weight of his stronger, bigger, more seasoned and let's face it, crazier, brother but still not give up; I begin to root for him. Motioning with my hands that he should try to grab for Soda's ankle, throw him off.

Their legs are tangled up together, both of their faces gritted in the almost exact same expression and they morph into some weird blob right in front of me and though they're trying to wrestle each other they never looked or seemed more alike.

They are almost silent except for heavy breathing (Pony & Soda) and low murmured curses (Soda). They're at a stalemate, when Pony slithers out of Soda's grasp, pushing Soda's arm off him and stands up triumphant.

"Ha!"

I can't help but smile, and I wonder if this pride I'm feeling is what my dad felt when I triumphantly came home, busted lip, but grinning like an ol' Jack O' Lantern after clobbering Jesse Walker who had a good 15 lbs on me?

Pony smiles back at me and maybe it's the glare of the T.V. or the fact that I'm still dead ass tired, but the way Pony is standing tall, the way he crosses his arms, he looks like me at eight. Even his skinny body doesn't seem as puny as it normally does.

I wonder if with my uncontrolled bed head and Dad's old shirt on, I remind him of Dad as much as he reminds me of my younger self.

Soda glances at his empty arms with a charged look and I'm expecting some fireworks, not at Pony so much, but at me.

Not that he can take me on. It's almost pathetic to even think of Soda trying to jump me. Course it's even more pathetic thinking of me at 14 trying to fight off a 10 year old kid. But I don't want Mom to wake up, so in a spirit of brotherly love I cross my arms and glare at him, the message, 'try anything buddy and you're dead' I hope reads loud and clear.

Soda looks at Pony, and something inside of him is tempered.

"Good job Pony. Man you got a good grip, Ponykid."

He shakes his head with pride.

I shake my head, wondering if I imagined that a minute ago Soda was all over Pony, looking at him with anything but pride.

But that's Soda, he switches off and on so quickly that he makes you question your own eyes and mind.

He ruefully rubs the area of his arm that Pony yanked, grinning the whole time and though it's clear that he's putting on a show for Pony's benefit, I don't miss the look of total glory and gratitude that Pony shoots Soda. We all know that Soda is Pony's hero. The part of my brain which needs to make everything a competition, to divide the world into winners and losers can't help but compare the grin he gives Soda and the smile he gave me.

It's like the difference between Linda's real tits and her dreamland tits.

There's no comparison.

* * *

Soda puts his arm around Pony, "I'm real sorry I got mad at you, I shouldn't have."

Pony like he always does forgives Soda before Soda even forgives himself, "it's nothin' Soda."

Soda looks down and carefully examines Pony's arms for any redness, to my surprise there isn't any markings.

They leave me, Rin Tin Tin and the dawn's early light alone in the living room.

Just as they turn the corner, Pony turns his head and loudly mouths "thanks Darry!"

I shrug disinterested, but the smile on my face betrays everything.

* * *

Thank you for reading! :)

S.E. Hinton owns


	5. The Grandsons Also Rise

**I think I should change the name of this series from Slice of Life to Lulu's Self Indulgence, Woe to Anyone Who Enters. So like I said this is PURE self-indulgence on my part featuring not even the kids of the Curtis brothers, but three of their grandsons. I know, I know, what's next? Second cousin twice removed? ;) Don't tempt me. ;)**

 **But that being said, I actually had fun tying to get into three different voices of three boys. So with no further ado**

* * *

 _ **Curt**_ **(Patrick's son, Soda and Angela's (!) grandson)**

I'm at my friend Robbie's house. His parents are out. His older sister hooked up with some guy named Gary over the summer. Her name is Nancy. It was just the two of us, in her old bedroom, smoking some weed. I cough and smoke fills the room. I've only smoked weed once before, and I try to keep my coughing down. I don't want Robbie to think I'm a pussy.

Nancy is tall with blonde hair and brown eyes. All summer she would wear tight shorts that showed off her ass. She stopped wearing her tiny shorts when she married Gary.

I thought she was a real babe. I still do. I'm short, got curly black hair like a Brillo pad and small black eyes. My Gram tells me I'm the best looking guy and no one is better looking than me, but I've learned to tune her out. She's crocked out on meth half the time.

A poster of one of the Backstreet Boys stares me down. Damn he's ugly.

"You know my sister had a huge crush on your dad," Robbie said in a casual tone of voice while going through a drawer of his sister's lingerie. She liked pink.

"Have her join the club" I mutter. Apparently a lot of people had crushes on my dad. He's from Vietnam so he still got this trace of an accent, even though he speaks perfect English. Women think that's sexy.

In my mind I pictured Nancy, my Nancy, in her tight short-shorts and pink velvet G-string flirt with my Dad while he's mowing the lawn. I turn bright red. Anger burns inside of me, not at Nancy or at Robbie, but at my dad, even though he didn't do anything wrong.

It ain't his fault that he's so damn good looking. Truth is, if Nancy did flirt with my dad, I don't think he would notice or care. He's in love with Casey.

Casey is fine. She can be a pain in the ass when it comes to me watching T.V. too loud or not putting away the dishes, or leaving my room a mess, but has no problem with me bringing Robbie over. She makes great turkey and ham sandwiches and buys us pizza rolls. I like Casey, but she's my stepmom, not my real mom.

My parents separated when I was a baby. Cash asked me if it was hard to keep on going back forth. It isn't. It's all I've ever known.

I'm nothing like my Dad. He's good looking and real calm and easy going. He likes reading. He likes all this weird music. I'm always on edge. I like Limp Biskit. Gram tell me I remind her of her brother Curly. I'm just glad she don't say I remind her of my Uncle Anthony. His ass is in prison. It seems like half the people on my mom's side are either in prison or always high or both. Uncle Anthony's dad escaped from prison, tried to take some kid hostage or something, and got shot by the police. It was in the newspaper and everything.

I guess I love them, cause they're family, but it's damn embarrassing seeing Gram with her missing teeth get in screaming matches with the neighbors. I don't get why people do meth. It fucks you up. Gram used to live with us, my mom and me, until she almost ODed. I was the one who found her. I did CPR on her. Saved her life. Once she was released from the hospital my mom told her she needed to go to a treatment center and couldn't see me until she got help. My mom always gives my grandma tons of second chances, but that night she was dead serious. It was the first time I ever saw her put her foot down to Grams and mean it.

Gram was miserable and kept on saying that she'd rather die than cause me pain and she looked awful, worse than the night I found her. She cries all the time, but then she goes back to her junk. So, yeah.

She lives with Uncle Tim. Now it's just mom and me in our apartment. It's a small one. Two bedrooms, but it's more than enough for us. I also live with my dad, my little brother and Casey. They ain't perfect at all, but compared to most of my mom's family, they're like the Brady Bunch. Bobo and Lola aren't crazy like Gram. They took care of me a lot when I was little when Dad and Casey were busy with Cash and his doctor appointments. I've always been real close to Bobo, sometimes closer to him than to my own dad.

My mom is pretty cool. She's nice, a bit of push over, but sweet. I have no idea how she ended up so nice and normal when all her blood relatives are white trash. Dad says I shouldn't call them that, but come on man, when you're a fifty year old grandma getting in wrestling matches with the neighbor cause she accused you of looking at her old man, that's trashy. And they're white hence: white trash.

Dad sighs tells me how people use to call him names in Vietnam cause his dad's American and called him slurs in America cause his mom's Vietnamese. That I know better. But it's not the same thing at all. He should know that.

The thing with Gram, is that I know she loves me and I love her, she just needs to pull herself together. My Bobo and Lola aren't perfect at all, and they had some major issues, but least I don't have to worry about them choking on their own vomit or ending up as a guest on Jerry Springer.

It's embarrassing. I never ever want to go through that night with her again, scared that she almost died. When I'm real pissed off at her I tell myself that I wish she had died that night, but I don't mean it.

What scares me is that if she keeps on screwing up, no matter how much I love her or how much she loves me, I'll stop caring. Unlike my mom, there's only so much I can take.

Oh, my Aunt Shantelle is normal. Her dad went to prison cause he was a corrupt cop but since he was a cop they had to put him in witness protection so the gang bangers wouldn't kill him. He got out some years ago, now he works at Woodland as a mall cop. Even got the big belly full of beer and donuts.

If I'm chillin with my crew he'll sometimes nod towards me, once he even went up to me and asked me how Gram was doing. Then he'll make some lame joke about we shouldn't steal and we'll nod and say 'yes sir' before going back to sitting on benches, eating our warm cinnamon and sugar pretzels and watch all the hotties walk by.

Dad does that too, ask me how Mom is, not watch hotties walk by. My parents get along okay for a divorced couple, I mean, they're divorce so they obviously had some issues, but they seem pretty chill now. I've seen some parents act like their playing Mortal Kombat every time they do the switch over.

The only time I really heard my parents fight was over Gram. Dad kept on saying to Mom that he didn't want me around her, Mom saying that Gram was her mother and it was a lot more complicated than he knew.

"It's not like your family is perfect, Patrick." Mom crossed her arms and spit the words out at him, for most people it wouldn't be a big deal, but for my mom that was the equivalent of decking him.

That was before Gram almost died.

My Gram is always yapping about 'your father's people' she doesn't mean Vietnamese, but Curtises. Telling me how my Dad is just like my Great Uncle and my Bobo. "It's a shame they're so good looking, but can't trust any of them as far as you can throw 'em."

When I pointed out that I'm a Curtis, even though my last name is Nguyen, she scoffs and says, "no you ain't, you're a Shepard, through and through."

My mom isn't even a Shepard, her last name is Jones.

Then she'll go talking about Shepard family lore and end up on some bizarre tangent.

But she loves me in her own way.

So there, my mom and Aunt Shan, the two normal, never been incarcerated members of the family. And me. Woo. Fucking. Hoo.

I get away with a lot more at Mom's than I do with Dad or Casey, that's for sure. I make good grades. I'm not a kiss up or super smart like Cash, but I make decent grades, mostly Bs.

Both my parents are nice. So is Cash. Sometimes I wish I was nicer. I'm not mean on purpose but some people drive me fucking nuts.

Cash asked me once if I'd rather my parents stayed together, I flicked him on the forehead, hard enough that he cried out 'oww' like a wuss, and told him "course not, I get double the birthday presents. See all this shit?"

I move my hands around, pointing to all of the video games and C.D.s and old action figures hoarded in my room.

"I get three families: Dad, my mom and Casey's family all buying me presents. I got it made."

I folded my hands behind my head and gave him a smug grin.

Truth is, sure I like having two rooms full to the brim, but if my parents stayed together, we wouldn't have Cash.

But I don't want to get all mushy on him.

Dad is always trying to spend time with me when I come over. He feels guilty cause he doesn't get to see me all time like he does Cash, so he wants to make up for it. Always telling me how he didn't have his dad growing up and how tough that was for him, that he never wanted me the same for me.

But it's not the same. He grew up in Vietnam, he didn't even know his dad 'til he was ten, he never talks to us about what he went through and like I said he's a pretty chill guy, but he'd get angry when we played war growing up.

"Can't you guys play something else?" Then he mutter some words in Vietnamese. Oh yeah, I can count to 20 in Vietnamese and know some basic words and phrases. Not much, but enough to order pho at the cheap carry out place Dad loves.

I don't like Vietnamese food, I prefer pizza all the way, extra greasy.

He's always asking me about everything in my life, asking me about my friends, about school, about if I want to listen to his weird music with him. All his questions drive me nuts. But I guess it's nice that he cares. He tells me that I can talk to him about anything. Thing is, I believe him. He's a chill guy. I just like keeping things to myself. Like my Nancy.

Robbie is still bitching, "Nancy thinks your dad looks like the lead singer from Incubus."

"Incubutt?" I'm giggling so much my side hurts.

"Ink in your butt?" Robbie drawls out, stoned as hell.

"You wish man, Shit, you probably gotta crush on my dad, butt muncher." I laugh through the dense fog of smoke.

"Shut up shit face," Robbie punches me in the ribs, least he tries to punch me, I'm too fast for him, and the next thing I know we're wrestling each other to the ground, calling each other names, punching, laughing.

* * *

 _ **Cash**_ **(Patrick's son) Soda's grandson**

I tell people I was named after Muhammad Ali; that my first name, Cassius, is in honor of Cassius Clay. That the "C." for my middle name actually stands for Clay, not Christopher. But nope my mom named me after a horse. A HORSE.

"Could be worse, Cash," Dad says with a wink, "you could have been named Ponyboy or Soda."

My grandpa's brother is named Pony, but he was named after my Great-Grandpa, his nickname as a kid was Pony Boy. Nobody named him after a damn horse.

She makes sure to tell me that it was her favorite horse, a brown palomino. Like *that *makes a difference. But that still doesn't change the fact that when I was born my parents took one look at me, smiled, and said, 'yeah, we should name our only son after a horse.'

"Could be worse,bud," Hazer tells me, but she's not named after a horse. But she could be. She snorts like one. I'm being a little mouthy, Hazer's fine. She usually ignores me and spends all of her time holed up in her room or playing her drums.

Being named after a horse aside, I got it pretty easy. I get along with my horse naming parents, I got a bunch of family and friends, I get along pretty well with my older brother. Curt splits time between our house and his mom's house and as long as I don't touch his stuff or narc to Dad about his secret stash of weed, which he absolutely, positively does NOT have (wink, wink) he's cool. The fridge is always stocked. So, all is all things are going petty swimmingly for Cassius "Cash" Nguyen. Oh yeah, before you roll your eyes, I usually don't refer to myself in the 3rd person.

There's one big exception to my semi-charmed life. My C.P.

I was named after a beautiful, wild beast who ran so fast Mom said she felt like she was flying every time she got in the saddle and I can barely walk.

I feel like my name should be changed to "Cash the guy with Cerebral Palsy ™.You know what, I bet it wouldn't matter if I saved an entire school bus from flipping over, or rescued a baby from a burning building, or brought down Bin Laden, I'll always be that kid with C.P.

And that sucks balls.

Because I don't just want to be known as Cash the C.P. kid. I want people to know that I'm obsessed with the Chicago Bulls, I've watched Men in Black on our DVD player so many times I have it committed to memory. I love reading Harry Potter, Watership Down and Eragon. My grandma gave me a dragon pendant that I wear around my neck. it's black with silver fire shooting out. Dad tells me that dragons are important in Vietnamese culture.

She gave Curt one too, but his broke.

Oh yeah, I build model space rockets and launch them in my backyard. Sure, half of them are duds, and maybe one (or two) of them caught on fire, scorching a rocket sized hole in our backyard and holy hell were my parents pissed at me; but you know what? I'd rather be known as Cash the kid who almost blew up his house than Cash the gimp.

My luck I'm gonna be known as the gimp who blew up his house.

The worst part about having CP isn't the stares, least not anymore. I'm used to it by now. It's just a part of my life. I have blonde hair, hazel eyes and walk with a pronounced limp in both my legs.

I've been doing physical therapy and had surgeries ever since I was a baby, and when I was a baby the doctor was worried that I would never walk at all, so I know I don't have a lot to complain about, it could have been a lot worse.

I still hate physical therapy, except the equestrian therapy I do with my horse, Shadowfax. For the record, I wouldn't want to be named Shadowfax either.

Mom and Dad used to tell me that people were staring cause I'm so damn cute, which is a crock of bullshit, but they're my parents so they had to say that stuff.

"No! They're all looking at me cause I got CP!" I screamed at my dad one day when I was a little kid, that only caused more people to look at me, which made me burn even more with embarrassment and frustration. We were walking through the Woodland Mall's food court, on our way to get a slice of pizza. Dad just got on his knees so we were eye level and said, "you're right, a lot of them are looking at you because of your braces and walker, AND because you're a damn good looking kid, Cash." He tried to grin at me, but I wasn't having it.

I remember that day cause it was the first time my dad came clean over the real reason people were always gawking at me and it was the first time I heard him swear.

When I started school some kids acted like I was diseased and they could catch it. Worst were the teachers who acted like I was slow. That's why I study really hard and make sure that my teachers always see me reading, it's hard enough to be the class cripple without being labeled the class dummy.

But I also learned to use my CP to my advantage. I'll make jokes about myself before anyone else can. "Run, Cash, Run!" I'll say in a dead on imitation of "Run, Forest Run!" Or, I'll do an impression of myself dancing, looking like a broken robot, and everyone will be in stitches. Pretty soon I stopped being known as Cash the kid with CP and started to become known as Cash the kid with CP who's kinda funny. And eventually I made some friends who don't even seem to notice or care that I got CP, we play Dungeons and Dragons or watch movies and go to each other houses and hang out.

The best is Hawk. Hawk is Bobo and Lola's son, so technically he's my uncle, but really he's more like a brother to me. He's a year younger, but he's bigger than me and he's always getting into what he calls 'adventure' but his parents and my dad call 'trouble.'

When Hawk's around, I'm never bored. No one dares makes fun of me with Hawk around. That's partially cause everyone's attention is on Hawk, he's sorta crazy, but so much fun, especially when he's acting out. I'm not as quiet as Curt or Hazer, but compared to Hawk, I'm a mute.

But it's also cause Hawk would pummel anyone who even looks at me askew.

The best thing about Hawk? He never treated me any different because of my CP. Some years ago when we were little kids, I was being a real jerk to him, not letting him play on his Nintendo, even though it was his turn and he asked me to let him play about a dozen times.

"Come on Cash! You gotta give me a turn," he whined, almost in tears as he banged his head against the couch.

Tapping the controller against my brace I gave my friend a selfish grin "hell no! I'm winning. You can watch me."

Hawk finally had enough. Screaming like a banshee, his arms and legs moving like nunchucks, his eyes blazed with anger, he head butted right into me. I tried to push him down, but Hawk was bigger and a much better fighter, every time I tried to get a punch in, he'd pummel me. Damn did it hurt!

I had never gotten in a physical fight with anyone before, even Curt, though he called me every name in the book, never physically fought with me; I had no idea what to do.

I was desperate, but I didn't want to be too rough on him, because even though he was bigger than me, he's younger. But the more he tried to wrestle the controller out of my hand, the angrier I got, until by the sounds of his frequent yelping, I did a pretty good job of turning the tables on him.

Until Hawk punched me right in the gut. If you don't think that hurt, you're crazy.

It was then that Lola and Hazer, fresh from Haze's drum studio (really an old shed in back) rushed into the house. I've never seen Lola run that fast or that furiously before. She yanked him off me, and though she tries to keep her swearing down in front of us kids, screamed, "what the fuck is wrong with you?!" at her son.

Lola rarely gets mad, and I had never seen her that pissed off at Hawk before.

"Mom, they were both fighting, not just Hawk," Hazer always stands up for Hawk but I felt super grateful for her in that moment, more than anything I just wanted to be one of the guys, even if that meant getting chewed out.

Before Hawk could say anything Lola turned to me, rubbing my back, "where does it hurt, honey?"

I was still aching a bit, but I grinned from ear to ear. For the first time I felt like just one of the guys. I told her that I never felt better. Lola just rolled her eyes, told us we were both insane and asked us if we were sure we didn't whack each other's brains out.

Hawk and I just burst out laughing.

A week later Hawk came to my house to hang out, in his Pokemon backpack he had a Nintendo game console. He was almost in tears when he saw me and told me that his Nintendo got taken away for two days and was grounded for two days; and when Hazer found out he was the one who started the fight she told him how disappointed she was and that he needed to make it up to me. Hawk thinks Hazer is the best ever, he practically worships the ground she walks on, and just having Hazer tell him that he let her down would be enough to make Hawk miserable and willing to do anything to right himself in her eyes.

"I'm really, really sorry Cash! I didn't mean to hurt you!" Then he started to cry which made me feel really bad and sort of awkward at the same time. Especially with my mom watching with her hands on her hips giving me a dirty look like I did something to make him cry.

"I really didn't hurt your brain, did I?" He asked me in a worried tone, pulling my hair back to look at my scalp. I rolled my eyes hard at that one.

He wanted to give me the Nintendo as a peace offering. I refused to take it, even if I wanted it, my parents wouldn't let me accept it, besides I had a Sega which was better than Nintendo, but I didn't tell him that. It didn't matter because Hawk already gave me the best gift ever: to be pummeled like he would have done to any other kid acting like a jerk to him.

Instead I gave him a light punch on the arm and told him we were even.

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning and he put his arm around me, "me and you, we're kinda brothers ain't we, Cash?"

"Not real brothers" I began, and Hawk's face looked like it was going to fall straight to Middle-earth before I continued, "but better."

A postscript: Hawk still kicks my ass every time when we play D&D, don't mess with him.

* * *

 ** _James_ (Pony's grandson) **

William Faulkner once wrote, "the past isn't dead, it isn't even past." I think about those words often. Faulkner wrote this in the 1950s at a time when America, particularly in the South was coming to terms with the sin of Jim Crow.

But what if you don't know your past? Can something die if it never existed in the first place?

I live in Tulsa with my mom, my stepdad and my little sister, Zoe. Yet there is one piece of my own puzzle who remains missing, a piece of me that no matter how much I am truly loved and wanted by my family, is never meant to fit in: my father.

His name is Drake Fisher and he used to date my mom. For the longest time I knew more about him though what people didn't say than what they did.

My Aunt Daphne talks A LOT. She has opinion on everything and she talks more than anybody else in my family put together. But when I ask her about my dad, she suddenly gets quiet. She looks at me, gives me her friendly smile and tells me that I should ask my mom.

When I was real little mom and me lived with her dad, my Papa. One time I tried to ask him about my father. Before Kevin came into my life, Papa was in every way except biological, my father. He looked at me with a serious expression, and I felt my stomach clench as if I was on top of a roller coaster, yet I knew I had to see it through. I can always count on Papa to tell me the truth, kindly but without coddling, but like Aunt Daffy did, he told me that I had the right to know my past, but it wasn't his story tell.

"Then whose story is it?" I asked my voice rising.

"It's your story, James, and you mom's," his voice soft and full of sympathy, even as he scratched the back of his head.

I hated that, the more my family was trying to protect me from my own story, from my own past, the more I made up all of these horrible tales about what that story might be. I've never had much of an imagination, not like Zoe, but I traveled into the deep underbelly of depraved thought and into the sewer of my deepest nightmare.

What if Drake Fisher was a serial killer or a drug dealer or a rapist?

And in my dreams which were once fairly innocuous I found myself pulled into a bloodied swamp, the crackling moon blood red, the trees grown into claws, S.S. men and cattle cars humming in the background, the mushroom clouds of Hiroshima and Nagasaki exploding across a famished sky, and in this tableau of misery, my father.

I saw him: a man pulling me down, his eyes warped with an evil so toxic I choked, begging him for mercy and I saw his face: my face.

"Hello, son." I woke up shaking, sweating. I didn't tell my parents what happened, I just clutched my pillow, scratched my head and waited for the sun to rise, still feeling the prickly sensation of evil roll down my sweat drenched neck.

I can't ask my mom about him, she's a great mom and she's happy with Kevin, finding my story would only mean violently ripping off the Band-Aid she spent years placing over old wounds. Wounds my father, perhaps, caused.

But there is a selfish reason as well, I'm scared. Terrified at what the truth is, because as horrible as my nightmares are, the truth can be a lot worse.

I'm too afraid of what she'll tell me, too afraid of who I am.

Then one day, the past awoke from its restless slumber.

My grandparents are divorce and before Zoe or my cousins, Addi and Georgia came along, there used to be tons of photos of me at both Papa and Grandma's house. It was weird, like entering a shrine dedicated to myself: a shrine to a skinny, brown hair, brown eyed kid who always looks way too serious.

Now their walls are covered with even more family pictures, me, as well as my sister and my cousins. There are pictures of my mom and Aunt growing up, my Papa's family, my Grandma's family, even a picture of Kevin's mom and my Grandma at the Grand Canyon one year, my little sister Zoe throwing up in the background.

There was even a picture of Papa his two brothers and two of their friends playing poker, something Soda's wife, Mary took a while ago. When I saw that picture a tight rage boiled inside of me. My Papa is a writer, he wrote about a pretty screwed up time in his own life and about how his brother Soda was messed up for a few years by Vietnam and looking at the picture of those five, grizzled middle aged men, it dawned on me.

I knew more about some guy named Two-Bit (don't ask) than I did about myself. Two-Bit's dad ran out on him when he was a kid, but he knew who he was.

As much as I love Kevin and as much I don't want to hurt his feelings or my Papa, who was like a father to me, I needed to know who I was. Not just Kevin's step son or Pony's grandson, but who was James Michael Curtis, the son of Drake Fisher?

How could I see myself separate from him, if I didn't know him?

For some reason just as I felt my temper ready to spray a holy hell of untamed lava on my family, I had a moment of Eureka.

Up in Papa's attic is a box full of mementos and old documents, my mom's past in a banker's box. She doesn't know I know about it. The box has my birth certificate: father unknown, my baptismal certificate, mom's early will. I'm not Catholic, but I always cross myself when I see the will, just like I cross myself when I see an accident on the side of the road.

This time I crossed myself for another reason, as a form of prayer and supplication, and digging though the box, I found what I was looking for. One photo: mom and Drake.

I know it's them because on the back my mom wrote Paige and Drake Fisher. At first I thought she was saying that her name was Paige Fisher, which surprised me, I didn't think she married him.

Then I realized she was calling Drake by his full name, as if he were a stranger who happened to photo bomb her.

Mom never writes the full names of people on the back of photos unless they're strangers or people she wouldn't remember otherwise. That's who my father was to her, emotionally, no matter how long they dated, despite carrying his baby, a stranger.

They looked happy.

Or at least they didn't look unhappy. My mom's hair is thick and bushy in the photo. She sure had a lot of hair. She has on a black turtleneck and black jeans, there is a small silver chain on her neck. Drake had a goatee, brown eyes, brown hair and gold studs in his ears. He had on a Blackhawk's jersey and loose fitting black jeans.

I love hockey, despite my size, I play on the local team, left wing. No one in my family likes hockey and it isn't a big deal in Oklahoma at all, but I consider myself a hockey nut and it's strange feeling this connection with this man I never met. In one fell swoop he went from being the boogeyman in my nightmare to my dad, the hockey fan.

There are books all over the place, on the coffee table in front of them, on the shelves behind them, even on the couch. I put the photo up to my eyes, until it is almost touching my eyelashes, some of the books are my mom's, but most of them appear to be Drake's.

How do I know? My mom rarely reads non-fiction. On the couch, pressed against Drake's thigh, I notice a copy of John Hershey's "Hiroshima" my favorite book I read in Freshman Honors English.

And seeing this man with my favorite hockey team's jersey on and my favorite book next to his thigh, I felt a connection with him. A connection shallow, but a connection all the same.

He had a wide open grin, wide enough to slam a regulation size puck between his teeth, but his eyes were somber, his hand swung behind mom, but not touching her. It almost reminded me of the poses Zoe and I used to do, both of us on the couch, smiling at the same camera, only inches away from one another, but not touching each other.

My parents posed like brother and sister being forced to smile for the family Christmas photo.

Geez, I cracked up, of all the sick thoughts that floated through my head that particular one never occurred to me.

But I looked at the photo again.

Mom was smiling. Her eyes glow. Only a little bit of her teeth are showing. She had silver hoop earrings on.

Then I noticed. She leans slightly towards him, her chin almost resting on his shoulder. Almost, but not quite. It reminded me of that picture of God and Adam. You know the one I mean? They are reaching out to each other, trying to touch, but can't. My parents, wow, that's weird to say that. My parents are almost touching each other, but they can't do it.

I look at the clock, I need to go back downstairs or else people are going to be worried. Carefully I put the photo back at the bottom of the box, I put the will on top of the photo, I cross myself. I shut the box and put it away.

I didn't have the courage that day to ask my mom about Drake, when I saw her gloating to Kevin when she beat him in Trivial Pursuit and the way Kevin wrapped his arms around her and whispered something in her ear, the way she turned slightly red, then laughed, I knew she was happy. I couldn't take that away from her, I couldn't force her to pick her old wounds.

That moment, that day at least, that photo would have to be enough. The man I saw in the picture wasn't a monster, he looked cocky and scared, someone who spent his entire life pretending to be someone he wasn't.

She looked like mom, a younger version of course with embarrassing hair decked out in bad 90s fashion, but Zoe and my mother all the same.

I touched my past and walked away.

* * *

 ** _Thank you so much._**

 ** _Did you catch who Anthony's dad is? ;)_**

 ** _S.E. Hinton owns_**


	6. Mother's Day 1987

_**A long drabble**_

* * *

"Wonder what she looks like?" Soda Curtis pulled out the beer from his brother's well stock fridge, in contrast to his own fridge, half busted and covered in so many magnets it could lead a battalion of appliances into battle; and Pony's still covered in his daughters' years old doodles, the passage of time shown by the transformation of messy scribbles into legible signatures; Darry's stainless steel refrigerator is solid, clean and expensive.

Mary Curtis puts the finishing touches on the fruit kebabs, hell, if it was up to her, they'd just buy those premade plates from Piggly Wiggly, but no, Cathy insisted on making everything by hand.

She sticks a toothpick in a slice of melon.

"Leave that man alone, shoot the way you and Darry hoover over him it's a wonder baby brother ain't still a virgin." She laughs and even Cathy can't help but laugh along with her.

Soda reaches over his wife's shoulder, grabs a piece of melon, pulling back before she can slap his hand.

"You're worse than Haze," she cracks up again, her laughter is loud and free and fills up every empty space, every nook and cranny of the sizable house.

"Uncle Soda, Dad wants to know if you want bacon on your burger?" Billy Curtis stands on the front patio, his hand on the screen door.

"Shit," Soda mutters, of course he wants bacon, Darry knows that, "yeah buddy," he says in a light voice, "tell your dad not to skimp on it either."

"Okay," Billy says in a serious voice.

"Dad, don't skimp on the bacon."

Darry turns from away from the grill, waving a tong full of bacon at his brother.

Soda gives him a lazy thumbs up sign.

"William!" Cathy calls out wearily, "shut the door." She points to the still half open patio screen door, Billy runs to the door and…

"don't slam it either," Cathy says, opening up a tub of ranch dip for the veggies.

Billy shuts the screen door, softly.

"Mom, can I have a strawberry?" Tommy Curtis reaches for a strawberry on Aunt Mary's carefully constructed fruit kabob, Cathy sighs, "sure, why not. Just _one_."

"He's gotta be pretty serious about her if he's spending Mother's Day with her," Soda says to his wife.

"He says she's 'pretty' but he said the same about Aimee and she was ho…" Soda is about to call his former sister-in-law, Aimee Gent, 'hot as all git out' but stops himself.

His wife playfully hits him with a spatula and imitates the sound of buzzer, "saved."

Soda jokingly wipes his brow. Years ago this moment would have caused a fight between the couple, but now they laugh. Patrick and Hazer help, so too does the wine they had earlier.

Besides, Mary would have to agree, her former sister-in-law was hot as fuck.

Tommy Curtis grabs two strawberries.

"I wonder what she looks like too," Cathy says with a smile.

"Wonder who _who_ looks like?" Tommy, half a strawberry in his mouth.

"Never mind," his mother says quickly, "go outside."

Mary takes a piece of pineapple and pops it in her mouth, she figures by this point she might as well; there's no way these kabobs are gonna stay uneaten before Darry is done grilling.

Hazer Curtis is two and half, she has curly dark hair and dark eyes, she doesn't look anything like her daddy and she's the apple of his eye. In contrast to her father, decked out in old sandals, worn jeans and his trademark red flannel (if they were celebrating at his house he'd ditch the shirt) and her mother, dress in black spandex leggings and a long black shirt complete with rhinestones; Hazer looks like someone dipped her in a vat of cotton candy.

Her skirt has so many lacy layers to it; Cathy wonders how the little girl is able to move in it.

Besides her lacey pink skirt, she has on a sunny yellow silk top, all held together by a sky blue silk sash, tied in a big bow. Even her socks, white with pink hearts, have laces around them.

Mary Curtis would have rolled her eyes if you suggested three years ago that she would be dressing a daughter like a junior prom queen, but three years ago Mary would have also scoffed if you suggested that she would have a daughter in the first place.

Karen Curtis is unofficially 'babysitting' Hazer, making sure the little girl doesn't poke her fingers, wan thin, like her mother's, where they don't belong.

Hazer squirms out of Karen's arms and runs to her mama, her skirt makes her look like a penguin who drank a little bit too much electric Kool Aid.

"you behavin'?" Mary flashes her daughter the biggest grin and Hazer, though she doesn't understands what's so funny, grins and shakes her head no, which only causes everyone, even Karen, to laugh.

She's a quiet little girl, Hazer. She talks less than her cousins did at that age, even Paige; but she loves helping her Daddy out in the garage, even holding a wrench for him. Soda brags that his daughter's gonna be a mechanic someday, her hand eye coordination is _amazin'._

C.D. is watching the grill, Darry walks into his kitchen.

"What time's Patrick and Crystal getting here?" He asks his younger brother. His nephew and his new bride spent most of Mother's Day with his mom. They spent the day before with her mom. In Vietnam, Mother's Day is part of Parent's Day, known as "Mua Vu Lan" but while Anna would roll her eyes at the idea of slapping a corsage on her and taking her out to brunch; she's glad to spend time with her son.

Soda looks at his watch, "they shoulda been here about twenty minutes ago…" He tries to keep the worry out of his voice. Patrick is a grown man, not a little kid, hell he's gonna be a daddy in a few months. That trips Soda up, he's not sure what's harder to get his head around, that his son is going to be a father or that's going to be grandfather.

"Angela and the kids should be here soon too," Cathy says. An awkward silence falls across the room.

"Oh come on," Cathy says exasperated, "she's family, sorta," Cathy mumbles under her breath.

Mary nods, "you're right, Angela is our grandbaby's grandmother," we can't let her spend Mother's Day alone."

"She won't be spending it alone," Darry mutters, "she has her kids."

Cathy gives her husband a dirty look.

"Patrick wants her to be here," Soda says softly but in a tone of voice that brokers no opposition.

That settles it. Angela Wilcox nee Jennings nee Jones nee Shepard is officially welcomed at the Curtis family Mother's Day cook out.

"Now," Mary says, watching Hazer twirl herself dizzy, "Biff is the hubby who's in jail right now for corruption?"

"Yup, as oppose to the hubby who killed a trustee and got blown to kingdom come by the cops," Soda breaks in.

"Jesus Christ," Darry mumbles.

"And Chrissy's Daddy is the racist asshole," Mary says.

Mary Curtis is not known for being the most circumspect woman around, though she's more cautious than she was when she was younger, but when it comes to Ted Jones, 'racist asshole' is as mild as an expletive as she can come up with.

Ted, who claimed to love his own baby girl more than the stars and moon, refuses to acknowledge his 'Gook' son-in-law or the baby that his beloved daughter is carrying.

Soda feels his muscles tighten. He hates Ted Jones.

Everyone loves Crystal though. Crystal is shy and sweet, though they're only 19 and 20 everyone agrees that both Patrick and Crystal have a maturity of people twice they're age. If anyone can weather the storm of young parenthood and dysfunctional family, it's these two.

"What's Pony's woman's name again?" Soda asks his brother, hoping to keep his mind off of all the terrible reasons his son and his new daughter-in-law might be late. Patrick is a good guy, if he was planning on running late, he'd call ahead.

"Geena," Darry says, watching his two oldest sons at the grill, "with two es."

"Aimee with two ees, Geena with two ee's, I'm seeing a pattern." Soda taps his chin, right below where his tongue ring is.

"We're guessing what she looks like," Mary tells her brother-in-law, "I'm saying brown hair, Sherlock Holmes over there thinks blonde. Whattabout you Cat?"

Cathy shrugs as she counts out the forks, "red-head."

Hazer climbs into her Daddy's lap, and Soda's kisses the top of his baby's head.

"She has brown hair, I ran into them at the grocery store."

"What?!" Mary cries out. Little Hazer, imitates her mother "what?!"

"Christ, Darry, you didn't tell us?" Soda straightens his posture.

Darry shrugs helplessly, "I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

Even Cathy rolls her eyes, "come on."

"She has brown hair and light eyes, we talked for a few minutes then Pony had to pick up Paige at a friend's house."

"What color are her eyes?" Mary asks.

"I have no idea, blue, maybe green? I don't remember."

"What else?" Soda asks, anxious to get the run down on his brother's first serious girlfriend since his divorce.

"Shit, what is this, twenty questions? I dunno," Darry puts his hands out, "she looked normal, nice."

"She looked normal," Cathy gently mocks.

"Well, Pony and normal looking Geena with two ee's should be here for dessert."

Patrick and Crystal arrive. Mary thinks Crystal is beginning to show, but Crystal thinks it's still too early. Although everyone is nice, very nice to Crystal, she feels a bit intimidated, Patrick, puts his arm around her. "Come on babe, I'll show you around," he says in a voice that reminds everyone of his dad, which is funny, since Patrick doesn't sound a thing like Soda.

But the gentle way he puts his arm around her, protective, sensing her slight discomfort at being greeted by a bunch of people she barely knows, is a Soda gesture if anything is.

Patrick shakes his dad's hand and his dad pulls him in for a quick hug. Hazer runs to her brother and he bends down to hug her. Patrick still isn't big on hugs, but for family, he'll make an exception.

"How's your mom?" Mary asks after giving her stepson a hug.

He smiles at her, he appreciates that she cares,and Mary, she does care. "She's good."

After a quick tour, Patrick and Crystal sit on the couch, they're both quiet, especially her. C.D. sits down on the foot rest, telling his favorite cousin all about his baseball team.

"I'll probably be a pitcher this year," C.D. brags. C.D. Curtis will not be a pitcher this or any other year.

"Yeah right," Karen Curtis says under her breath.

C.D. gives his sister a finger on his no pitching hand.

Angela and her two youngest children, Anthony and Shantelle arrive. Angela smells like booze. Crystal is relieved that her brother was driving. Anthony Jennings has a black eye. He just got released from Juvie. The black eye is because his step daddy is Biff Wilcox, the most corrupt cop in Tulsa's history, _a blight on the proud tradition of Tulsa's finest_ , at least according to the editorial page of the _Tulsa World_.

When Anthony's identity was revealed, the black eye wasn't the only injury he received. He never told anyone, certainly not his mother, bout what happened to him. He keeps it to himself. He keeps everything to himself.

Anthony has no idea why he has to spend Mother's Day with these fucking snobs, hell he don't even know why he needs to spend it with his own Ma.

Every time Ma visited him in prison she'd cry, bitching about how tough her life was, how much she missed him, promising him that she was going to stop doing drugs. "I mean it Anthony, I'm stopping, this ain't the life I want for any of you." That was a riot. Though she doesn't know it, Anthony was Angela's first customer.

Angela was never good at hiding her shit.

Angela loops arms with her son, as if he's escorting her. Anthony rolls his eyes, he wishes his Ma would just drop the pretense, she's a fuck up, he's a fuck up, stop pretending they're the fuckin' Brady Bunch.

"Stop," he whispers to her.

She claws her fingernails into his forearm, hard enough to almost draw blood, and smiles at Cathy Curtis.

Patrick stands up when his mother-in-law comes into the room and offers her a chair.

"Nice to see good manners ain't skip this generation," she says to her children. Anthony shrugs, "whatever."

She stumbles into her chair. Patrick pretends he doesn't notice how drunk she is. Crystal glares at her mother. Angela smiles at her eldest daughter. Crystal gives her mother a half-hearted smile. She loves her mother. Despite all the mistakes Angela has made, she loves her mother blindly, and Angela she knows, loves her children.

Darry is, as always, a gracious host, welcoming Angela with open arms. Once he out of view he mimics a drunk guzzling down beer to Cathy.

"Wasted," he shakes his head.

"Well, this oughta be fun," Cathy says with a sigh.

Karen and Anthony sit at the adult table, the kids all lounge on the patio. Shan refuses to eat her meal.

"Come on," Angela says as she tries to stuff food in her daughter's mouth, "you like it," She laughs, loud and desperate.

"It's okay," Cathy says quickly, hoping to defuse an awkward situation, "we got some food in the fridge if you want to see if anything looks good," she tells Shan.

Tommy Curtis' jaw drops.

"No, she's gonna eat it," Angela says, a fork full of potato salad inching close to Shan's zipped mouth.

Then Shantelle gives her mother the two words that cut like daggers, "Daddy wouldn't." Daddy wouldn't make Shantelle eat this nasty food, Daddy wouldn't make his baby girl do anything she didn't want to do. Shan knows that her Daddy is working a top secret mission and that's why he can't be with her. Shantelle cries herself to sleep.

First Daddy, then Anthony now Crystal, Shan's family always leaves her; Anthony is back now, but he's acts like a real asshole, even to Mom, especially to Mom.

"Fine," Angela says in a low voice, she softly cuffs the back of her daughter's head. _Brat._

The ghost of Emily Post must have been looking after the family because besides for a hand that landed on Soda's lap, Angela acted fairly decent.

"When's Ponyboy coming?" There is still a hungry desire in Angela's voice, though she's 36 and about to become a grandmother, she never got over Ponyboy Curtis. Now he was divorce, _hmmm_ , served him right.

"He should be here for dessert," Cathy says evenly.

"That's the boy who helped your Daddy hotwire a car," Angela says loudly to Anthony, despite the fact that he's right next to her.

Patrick rolls his eyes, and Darry gives his nephew a knowing grin.

Angela grabs a bottle of beer. "Mama," Crystal says softly, although her tone is severe, "you think you need another one?"

Angela doesn't say anything, but the pop of the bottle does all her talking for her. She's sure.

Crystal Nguyen thinks about her baby, if it's a boy they're going to name him Curtis, after Patrick's family, if it's a girl, Kristen. She's hoping for a girl, she wants a little girl so badly.

While Crystal and Mary talk, Patrick pulls his Uncle to the side. He runs his hair through his head, "Is that job offer still good?"

Darry blinks, he offered Patrick a job at Curtis Construction once he knew about Patrick's impending fatherhood, Darry knew firsthand the cost of raising a family, but Patrick claimed that he and Crystal we're doing fine.

Patrick Nguyen was lying.

Darry nods, "it's yours. It's hard work, I can't give you any special treatment cause you're my nephew, but…"

Patrick nods, "I get it, absolutely, I really appreciate it." Patrick Nguyen never imagined that he'd work construction, but then again, he never planned on having a wife or baby at this time in his life.

He never wanted to be the guy who needed to rely on his family member for a job, he wanted to be independent, but the costs of Crystal's doctor appointments convinced him that it was impossible to be independent on his salary.

Patrick sighs, his father was a soldier at nineteen, his mother already lived a million lives by age nineteen, yet Patrick feels overwhelmed by the prospect of having a baby.

But he refuses to let anyone, even his own father, know just how overwhelmed he is. He feels like a coward, he needs to man up. He's going to muddle through, it's the only way.

Even if it kills him.

Angela falls asleep on the couch. She and her two youngest children go home.

Cathy cuts slices of cake for dessert. Karen gets the bowls out for ice cream.

Crystal is tired, she wants to go home. She had enough family for one day. "Ten more minutes, okay babe? Then we can leave." Patrick asks. He doesn't want to leave.

She nods. It's hard for Crystal to put her foot down, even with something as small as this. But she knows that Patrick will keep his word, and she smiles when she sees him looking at his watch and saying goodbye to his stepmother and father.

At the tail end of dessert, after Patrick and Crystal have left, Ponyboy and Geena show up. This Sunday is supposed to be Pony's day with the girls, but since it's Mother's Day they're with Aimee. It's only right, and he'll get the girls on Father's Day, but he misses them.

Pony and Geena spent most of Mother's Day visiting her parents in Stillwater. Pony looks dead tired from the drive.

Geena is, as Darry described, 'nice' she's not a looker like Aimee, but she's pretty and seems friendly enough. She's a talker, which takes everyone by surprise.

She reveals that Pony just got published in _Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine_. It's a big deal, Pony worked harder on that story than almost anything he published before, the exception being his story on Soda and Vietnam. He's proud of himself.

The day he got published he grabbed the phone, ready to call Aimee at her work with the good news, then he remembered. He slammed the receiver.

"What's it about?" Cathy is glad that Pony is back to shaving his beard, he looked disheveled for a while after his divorce, she was worried about him.

"Oh, just your standard suspense." Pony says with a half-hearted grin.

The story is a mystery focused on a wife who murders her ex-husband and his family.

Soda knows that this day is especially hard on Pony, he couldn't imagine what he'd do if he lost Mary and the idea of not seeing Hazer everyday kills him. But Pony is strong, if there's anyone who has the strength to weather through a divorce, it's Ponyboy Curtis.

The thing is, as much as he wants to, he can't hate Aimee, not just because she's Paige and Daffy's mama, but Soda liked her, still does.

She's a good woman and Pony's a good man and they fell out of love and nothing, not even the love for their babies, could put them back together.

"There ain't no good guy or bad guy," Pony said to his brothers one night, drunk, explaining his upcoming divorce. Then he paused, "things fall apart." Pony wants to cry that night, not just because of his divorce but because his brothers don't get that reference, Aimee would.

But Pony still helped his daughter pick out Mother's Day flowers for Aimee and he knows that she'll help them pick out a mug for Father's Day.

He's going to hire a lawyer, try to get a better custody arrangement. The advance for the article will go to getting an attorney.

He takes a swig of beer.

"Hey, Miss. Hazer Stargazer," he says to his niece.

He misses his babies.

Mary is putting Haze in her car seat. She's fast asleep. Cathy's children are helping clean up the living room. "I don't get it, we didn't make the mess" C.D. points out.

Cathy puts the dishes in the sink. Geena offers to help, despite Cathy's protestations that she's a guest.

Pony tells a story about Daphne at school, laughing, shaking his head, when he talks about his daughters he becomes animated, happy even.

"How's Paige?" Soda asks softly.

Paige has been seeing a counselor because of her parents' divorce.

Pony straightens up and gives it to his brother straight, "better, she's…" Pony doesn't know what to say except his daughter is amazing and he loves her and he hated himself and Aimee for making her so miserable.

But mostly, he just hated himself.

She's a sensitive girl, but therapy seems to have helped her a lot. Now, she goes just to talk and play with her counselor. Daphne, Aimee and Pony join her, to help Paige, they become a family unit again.

The three brothers sit on Darry's picnic table, Darry, Soda, Pony. They look up at the sky.

"Can you imagine if Mom met Angela?" Soda says with a laugh.

"Glory," Pony shakes his head. "Was she here?"

"Delightful as ever," Darry says with a chuckle.

"She wasn't that bad," Soda says defensively, Mary's right, in a few months Angela and him will be grandparents to the same baby. He doesn't like the idea of talking smack about her no more.

"Mom would have so much fun with my girls," Pony says quietly, "with all the kids."

"Can you believe she would have been a great-grandma this year?" Soda shakes his head.

Darry looks at his fingernails, "I miss her everyday."

* * *

 _ **Things Fall Apart refers to the book by Chinua Achebe**_

 _ **"there ain't no good guy" is a reference to the Dave Mason song, "We Just Disagree"**_

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns.**_

 _ **Thank you for reviewing! :)**_


	7. Tommy's Party

_Hey! Is it an Outsiders fan fic if none of the canon characters show up? Probably not! But, I can't seem to get away from writing the lives of their children. This story is narrated by Darry and Cathy's youngest child, Tommy. This chapter deals with two topics: homophobia: religious, societal and internalized and Tommy's **specific** religious experience and beliefs and the way they play off each other. Every person's own story of coming out, whether to themselves or to family and friends and society, is unique and I honor and deeply respect that. So too is faith. This story takes place in 2000 and while that is 'modern' in the parlance of Outsiders fan-fic, unfortunately 20 years ago the country was is a completely different place when it came to equality. Obviously_ _Tommy's POV about 'sin' and his sexuality is not my own. Nor should it be read as a wholesale black & white view on religion in any way shape or form, (if Tommy belonged to a different congregation he might have a different and more positive view of his sexuality.) This is simply Tommy's experience and feelings. I have aimed to treat this story, Tommy Curtis' story in all of it's facets with the upmost respect and I sincerely hope from the bottom of my heart you enjoy._

 _Some slurs_

* * *

Spring 2000

I want nothing more than to sink my head into the pillow and pull the covers up past my ears and sleep off last night's 6-3 baseball game against Central and celebratory pizza party at Hideaways that lasted until 1:00 A.M.

But against my better judgment I'm at one of Zack Vandervelde's parties, swatting away the marijuana smoke that wafts through the smothering air. There are so many people crammed in like sardines, the room has turned into a hotbox.

"Hey Curtis, you want a hit?" A kid with thin arms reaches out and offers me a joint.

"No thanks Dawg, coach would kill me."

I can barely make out his face, but I see his shoulders shrug as he sinks back into the couch, blowing smoke rings into the air.

He's been quiet all night, just taking in the scene. But he's relaxed. Me, I don't have time to relax. My body is tensed and it's not because of the game. I can still hear my Dad's deep voice as I stepped on the pitcher's mound. He woke up today with a hoarse voice, but still bragging to Mom about my knuckle curve that struck out Central's star player. She knows. She was there. Even though I try to tell them that they don't need watch my games, and quite frankly its sorta embarrassing having them there, they have barely missed a single game since T-Ball.

Between baseball, church, school, piano and a million other things that take up every waking hour of my day, I'm constantly in motion.

My tongue moves across my lips.

I don't know if it's guilt or desire but I can feel phantom smoke thick and heavy like plaque buildup on the tip of my tongue. I don't know why I'm here. This isn't my scene. First of all, we're all cramped into the basement, it's too nice outside to be suffocating like this. I take in some Sprite and watch as a guy with messy hair and a girl with mismatched button blouse emerge from the laundry room, giggling. That's the second reason. I shouldn't be here.

I'm not too worried about what Coach Johnson would say, but what Pastor Ryan will. Pastor Ryan is a real good guy, I respect him, and not just cause he's a man of God, but because he's chill and decent. We've been talking a lot about temptation at youth group and I'm not gonna pretend I've never given into temptation, smoked, drank a bit, but I'm really trying to live a better life.

Far worse, I'm letting down God.

Here in the 11 x 17 square feet basement there might as well be a bright neon DANGER sign sprawled across the door.

I can't talk to anyone about my struggles. At youth group I'm one of the leaders. Pastor Ryan puts a lot of trust in me. I can't let people know how much I want to sin. How much I sin. I can't let them down. At home, despite going to church fairly regularly as a kid, no one in my family is particularly religious. For my parents going to church is something you do, an obligation. But not me. For me, it's my life. It's not something I do, it's who I am. Even more than baseball, I love God more than anything. I can't separate myself from my faith any more than I can my body.

Green Day blasts across the room. Over the shouts and shrieks it's hard to make out the lyrics, but I know it's _Time of Your Life_. The lyrics mock my mood, _"It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right. I hope you had the time of your life."_

That's third reason I don't want to be here. The music sucks. Give me Wu-Tang any day.

I know how to break dance and I'm decent enough, for a white guy from Oklahoma. I listen to Christian rock too, but deep down I prefer hardcore rap music. Maybe it's the beat, maybe it's the coolness. Maybe it's finding a connection with these guys I got nothing in common with. Probably it's the anger.

"Good game Curtis," Rick comes up to me and we bump fists. I give him a full beamed grin. Central is our main rival and I've probably shaken more hands, bumped more fists and received more free offerings of pot and beer in the past hour than any time in my life.

When I'm alone in my room, beaning Sammy Sosa with one of Karen's old tennis balls I put my headphones on and listen at full blast. Then every night before bed I open up my Bible with the cloth cover that reads: _Got Jesus?_ , take out my highlighter and start to read; the beat still pounding in my head.

I hear a happy shriek and look up to see Daphne raise her fist in cheerful defiance. At least s _omeone_ is having the time of their life. Even without her cry or her fist raised in the air, I would know it's Daffy by the crowd of people pulling closer and closer to her as if she is a neodymium magnet.

I've been trying to get Daphne to join me in Bible study, mostly cause I care about her and I worry about her, but also because she could do so much good if she used her popularity and personality for a greater purpose than herself.

High school is defined by cliques, but Daffy is a rare girl who transverses different groups, belonging to all and none at the same time and yet who despite, or because of her refusal to play by the rules manages to be desired by just about everyone.

She gets invited to a party almost every week, when she's not trying to throw one behind her folks' backs.

While everyone's attention is on my cousin, a girl walks past my line of vision and gives me a grin. I match her grin tooth for tooth. They don't call me Cute Tommy Curtis for nothing. This is wrong for all sorts of reasons, not least of all because I should be a freshman in college and she's no older than 17. I repeated Kindergarten due to 'maturity' issues.

I lick my lips. Despite the Sprite my throat is dry and parched.

I'm feeling restless and that's dangerous cause it means that I'm about to do something I'm going to regret the next morning. I imagine a parent busting through the basement door like Rambo and putting an end to the party. Part of me is hoping so.

I'm five seconds away from bumming a joint from the kid when I see a guy who looks like his exact double yank him up. As they walk up the stars, the second guy is slamming into people, laughing and shouting. Then a third guy with a Thomas the Tank Engine bed sheet wrapped around him like a toga rushes into them. An exact triplicate.

I rub my eyes and shake my head like they in cartoons, "are they triplets?" I ask Toby, our first baseman who is half the reason, Daphne being the other, I'm at this party.

Tobes snorts, "shoot for a guy who doesn't smoke you sure know how to get a contact high. That's the Donaldson triplets."

I know the Donaldson triplets: Micah, Jordan and Benjamin. I've seen them plenty of times in the hallway, especially Jordan; he's always hanging out with Daphne. But under the dim lights and smoke filled fuzzed up air, they are almost unrecognizable.

I'm glad Toby is with me, we're in the same study group at Church and I like to think that we keep each other accountable, but more than that, man, Toby is a blast. We go cosmic bowling and paintballing almost every weekend and no one makes being shot by a bunch of paint filled pellets more fun than Tobes.

He's the fourth reason I shouldn't be at this party. Even in the faded darkness with everyone's features blurry shadows I can still make out the contours of his face, his sharp chin, the crinkle under his eyes when he grins. His lips. I know it's wrong. But I want to kiss them. Kiss him.

My stomach churns hard against the weight of those thoughts. The sin.

I look down at my yellow WWJD bracelet, rub my index finger against the letters, remember James 1:13 and pray for the feeling to vanish like waters.

It's strange; when you think of doing a big sin it makes it so much easier to do a little sin. Tobes is smoking a joint. I don't have time or desire to question him even though I'm supposed be looking out for him and him me.

"Yo Tobes, hand it over." The wind is knocked out of my voice and I can feel the adrenaline surge through me til even my extremities are tingled with a rushed pulse.

Without a moment hesitation he hands me his joint. There's no crutch on it.

I inhale, I haven't smoked in months but it's like riding a bike, once you learn it's second nature.

It presses between my lips, soft and slightly wet. I hold it as long as I can. Like a kiss.

And I think of Song of Solomon 1:2.

* * *

I dig my fingers through the hole in the couch feeling cotton between my thumbs and forefinger. Then I remember that I'm not home and this is someone else's couch I'm defiling.

Daphne is sure having a lot of fun. That's because Daphne is fun. Maybe too much fun. No matter how sour your mood, you can't help but feel better being around her. She's out in the middle of the dance floor, her laughter and Coolio's ' _Fantastic Voyage'_ the only noise I can make out.

She makes eye contact with me and grins " _for you_ " she mouths. Zack's not really into rap, but Daffy knows I am and when Daffy wants something, 9 times out of 10, she gets it. I know Zack has a crush of Daf, but again, so to do half the guys in our Senior class.

I give her a thumbs up sign, she gives one back to me, a bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade in her hand.

She bumps into a girl with long red hair I don't recognize, almost sending her down to the floor and the other girl says something to Daf. I don't make out the other girl's words but from her body language I can tell it's hostile. But I hear Daphne, "watch where you're goin' BEYOTCH!" then she bursts into laughter and shouts, "just kidding, I love you!"

I can't believe she tried to get Hazer to join us. I know Daphne meant well, she wanted to get Hazer's mind off everything but for a girl who makes the Honor Roll on a regular basis, she never uses her head. I love her of course, but she's kind of a flake.

I cringe, think about asking her how much she drank tonight or the more important question, how much she plans on drinking; but the pull of the music is too much and I'm in no mood to scold her. What is the weight of underage drinking compared to what I think every time I glance up at Toby walking casually towards the chip and dip table?

I keep an eye on Daphne, partly to keep an eye on her, partly so I don't have to look at Toby. Then like that, I lose her in the crowd.

With good music pumping through the speakers, I feel a surge of energy forcing me up from the deep grooved in couch.

I get up, gently push a small side table out of the way, careful not to dent it, and start to breakdance. Before I know it, sweat is dripping down my neck, my hand almost slips on a pair of thongs that is poking from underneath the couch (Hypocrite thy name is Thomas) and a crowd forms around me, 'go Tommy, go Tommy…"

It's a different crowd than I'm used to, a bit rawer, but I'm able to win them over.

I'm a popular guy. I know that's conceited to say, I need to work on being humbler, but it's true. But I'd give up everything, even baseball the reason I'm so popular in the first place, to stop these feelings.

Over the spinning feet and thumped beat I hear Zack, "Curtis, glad you could finally make it!"

* * *

About a quarter of the party has already left, including Toby. I told Toby that I'm staying because I want to make sure Daphne gets home okay, which is true, but It's also because I don't have my car and I don't want to ride home with him, alone. It's not that I'm afraid I'm gonna do or say something that I shouldn't. Judging from the fact that I was on Homecoming Court and will take Lyndsay Borden to Prom, no one suspects anything. With Lyndsay I can at least give her a small kiss and hold her hand, nothing more though since we both agreed not to have sex until we're married. My faith is my shield in more ways than one.

But with Toby, the one person that I want to kiss hard on the lips until I feel a trickle of blood run down my chin, I can't even stare at him too long without falling apart. The thing is, even if what I felt wasn't a sin, even if it didn't fly in the face of everything I was taught in church, everything I believe, I don't know if Toby feels the same way about me. That's the worst. I'm sinning for nobody.

I join in a silly string war, but quit when we run out of silly string and someone whips out a can of Easy Cheese.

Daphne stumbles towards me, her arm around a girl with black hair, brown eyes and olive skin. She's cute. Her shy smiles contrasts with Daphne's blinding florescent grin, accentuated by her neon green lipstick, but there is something real genuine about her.

"Tommy! This is my friend Corie, she's an awesome pianist."

I'm twelve again cause just hearing the word 'pianist' makes me giggle.

Corie shrugs, "I'm not that good, I haven't played in years."

Daphne just wraps her arms around her, "don't sell yourself short, you're awesome babes. She's like Yo-Ma Yo, Tommy." She pulls Corie towards her and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. Corie smiles and gives my cousin a squeeze.

It's interesting how certain types of kisses between friends of the same gender is allowed, and others…not. Not that it should of course. _Greet all brothers with a holy kiss._ _Stop it Tommy._

Corie and I share a small, knowing grin.

"What's so funny?" Daphne asks eagerly if a bit desperate to get in on the fun.

" _Yo-Yo Ma_ is cello player Daffy," Corie says with a warm laugh, "I'm nowhere even close to that level."

Realizing my manners, I rub the silly string residue on my jeans and shake hands with Corie. She seems a lot quieter and well, more put together and shier than my cousin. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised that Daphne is friends with her. She is one of those girls who is friends or at least friendly with the entire school.

Conversations are buzzing around us. "Stop that you homo," a guy laughs. I feel myself inadvertently glancing up and then flinching before taking my cool, got it together posture I wear like a catcher's mask. I've jokingly call my friends gay and homo, it's just something we guys do, it's how we insult each other. But every time I hear those words slurred my stomach drops.

"Tommy is an incredible piano player too," Daphne and her hot pink false eye lashes give me a wink and a dull realization hits me. She's trying to play matchmaker. I groan internally. I imagine all Daffy told poor Corie, probably already promised my hand in marriage. Daffy doesn't like Lyndsay.

"She's so not your type Tommy. Let me fix you up with someone." She has no earthy clue.

There's a pause where I should say something and in that space Corie deflates a little. I know she probably thinks I'm one of those hot shot jocks who can't bother dating anyone other than cheerleaders and Corie is definitely _not_ the cheerleader type. She'll never know that my place perched at the top of the high school food chain is held up the weakest of links.

Daphne heaves an angry sigh and glares at me as if it's my fault I'm not falling for her friend. But I think of Toby and she's got a point. It is my fault. Corie, Lyndsay, all those pep club girls who make posters with my face and jersey number and plaster them around school, as much as I want more than anything to feel something towards them, towards any girl, I don't.

And every time I imagine Lyndsay, imagine her sweet face getting closer and closer to me for a closed mouth kiss, in my dreams her face morphs into Tobes and I wake up in a sweaty panic.

"What's your favorite song?" I break through the silence held together by Daffy's Artic eyes in my direction and protective arm around her friend.

"Huh?" Corie lifts her head up and I'm glad that she doesn't look upset anymore.

"On the piano, to play. I like Chopin No 3 A Flat Major."

"That's a really difficult piece," she sounds impressed. "Fur Elise," she says quietly.

* * *

"Hey, Curtis?" I look up and Vandervelde is leaning over me, a Solo cup swishing in his hand. "Just thought you oughta know, your cousin is fuckin' wasted." He casually points his thumb to the bathroom and through the half open door I can see Daphne leaning over the toilet, Corie holding her hair back.

My stomach drops. Daphne is no wallflower, and she parties and drinks on occasion, but not like this. She seemed fine not that long ago. I should have watched out for her.

"I'm sorry," Corie says as she rubs the back of Daphne's neck, "I should of kept better eye on her."

I shake my head, "not your fault," my eyes sharp as I look at Daphne's bobbing head.

"Hey Daf," I say sternly, knocking against the toilet lid. People are looking at us, my face burns with embarrassment. I don't understand why she has to be so difficult sometimes. When we were kids I was the one always getting in trouble for playing practical jokes on people, but now it's Daf who acts childish.

Daphne looks up at me and then back at Corie, her eyes slightly glazed, "Corie-Glory, I wantchya to meet my cousin, Cunt, I mean Cute Tommy Curtis." She belches.

Zack is right, not that I couldn't see it for myself. Daphne is wasted. Every time Corie and I try to help her up, she falls over.

Half the kids at the party think it's hysterical, "way to party hard Daphne!" someone cries out. Daphne laughs and tries to give them a thumbs-up sign before her head slams against the toilet rim.

Corie screams, "come on Tommy, we need get her home."

We try to lift her up, but her joints are like Jell-O then like sandbags as she sinks back to the floor.

"What's up with Gumby?"

I look up. Hazer.

I don't have time for this. I can barely manage Daffy right now; I don't have time for a fifteen year old child.

"What are you doing here?" It comes across a bit, but not much harsher than I intend.

"Last time I checked it's a free country, Tom. Could ask you the same. Here to convert the dirty heathens?" She asks with a mischievous grin.

There's several folded up pieces of paper in her hand.

"Your Dad is gonna kill you." I say through a clench jaw. The moment I say those words I realize the open wound I'm pouring salt into.

My cousin snorts, "Oh _, SODA?_ He ain't got right to tell me _a damn thing_." Her teeth clamp together on the last word as she takes a step towards me, her arms crossed, almost daring me to contradict her.

Hazer's a little girl, she can't be taller than 5'2 and weighs no more than 100 lbs but she's intimidating in her own way.

Daphne moans, low and pitiful like a wrong held note.

"So this is how the Tulsa elite party, I'll be sure to record this magic moment of discovery in my Hello Kitty Diary," Hazer says dryly.

I'm about to tell her to shut up, when Daf lets out a wheeze and projectile vomits onto the back tiles behind the toilet. Her eyes close for a few seconds before opening again. This is getting out of control.

Hazer's eyes widen and just when I'm expecting a smart comment out of her mouth, I notice that her chest and stomach moves in and out with suddenly rapid breath.

"Make sure nothing's blocking her air passage so she don't asphyxiate. Lean her on her side." She orders Corie. Her voice is so authoritative I do a double take, wondering how a kid knows so much, but glad, almost, to have her here to take over.

She rushes past me so fast that even though I'm practically a full foot taller, she almost knocks me into the wall.

Hazer drops the papers on the floor, in thick marker it reads: "Hazer: Drummer /Call for Info & Auditions" underneath her phone number and a picture of a cat in full attack mode with a thought bubble that reads 'Feed the Beast!' It fits her.

Corie and Hazer hold Daphne in position. Once I'm sure that she's not going to vomit again, I grab a handful of paper towels and clean off the tiles. This is worse than cleaning the latrines on last year's mission trip to Belize.

"You should make Pukey Brewster clean it up, it's her mess." Hazer declares smoothing over a piece of duct tape on her shoes.

Daphne's rambling about how her underwear is on inside out. She tries to pull her pants down with one shaky hand and reach for her underwear, "check for me, is this on right?" I avert my eyes not really needing to see my cousin's butt crack jiggling in my face.

I feel bad for Corie, but she doesn't bat an eye.

"I didn't even think you wore panties, Toots." Hazer snorts. I should tell Hazer to knock it off, but I feel a small guilty grin on my lips.

"Toot Toot" Daphne pulls her arm in a downward motion and smiles at Corie. Hazer rolls her eyes.

Daphne then finds Hazer and gives her the stink eye and in a voice surprisingly sober and with a hand surprisingly steady shoots our cousin the bird. "Asshole."

Hazer looks taken aback for a second, but doesn't say anything.

Corie hides her own smile behind her raised hand. A piece of Daf's hair falls into the vomit soaked toilet bowl.

My head hurts.

* * *

"We need to get her home," Hazer states the obvious.

I know, I know. But I don't know. I don't have my car. Daphne was smart enough not to drive herself to the party. Not that I would let her drive home drunk.

An uneasy feeling beyond my growing headache settles in my brain. Daphne doesn't really think ahead. She also loves her cherry red Mazda Convertible more than anything and loves showing it off. If she didn't drive herself it meant she came here for the purpose of getting sloshed.

Uncle Pony's gonna blow up if he sees Daphne drunk like this and my Dad's gonna flip out if he knew I was at this party. Going to chew me out and talk about how one false move and my full ride athletic scholarship to Oklahoma University is at risk, and he'd be right.

I'd aimed to get into Wheaton College but the Sooners offered me a 100% full ride everything including my dorm scholarship, I couldn't turn them down. Besides, Toby is going to NIU, the farther away I am from him, the better.

So I do the only thing I know to do, I call the master of preventing disasters, my brother Billy. Underneath a pile of Doritos I find a phone.

"Hey Bill, you busy?" I tangle the cord around my fingers and grimace, even the dial tone sounds like the Liberty Bell is being rung inside my eardrum.

"No, I'm just entertainin' some Saudi Princesses, gonna start me a harem." He sounds so much like C.D. I do a double take. I bet he's with Susannah and I feel bad for interrupting his evening.

"It's Daffy, she's drunk. I'm at a party with her and I can't even get her out of the bathroom. I'm sorry…"

I press my fingers against my forehead trying to relieve the 1,000 stampeding bulls running through my head. Daf might be drunk, but I'm the one with the hangover.

Some guy hits me in the back with a beach ball, but I hardly feel it.

"Okay," Billy's voice is suddenly sharp and serious, "I'm coming right over, what's the address?"

Billy's a big guy and when he arrives the few remaining people part way for him, someone wonders out loud if he's a parent. Someone else wonders if he's a cop.

"Narc! Narc!" someone cries out, "we got a Narc in here!" Then in a loud shout another voice cries out "hide the bong!"

He's been mistaken for an adult since he was 13.

Corie is trying to wipe Daphne's hair and I feel bad that this is her party experience.

She seems to read my mind, "I always heard a party with Daphne is an unforgettable experience," she says with a wink and more than anything I want to like her the way Daphne wants me to like her.

Billy looks at Daphne, "she doesn't need to go to the hospital, does she?" I can see why he said that, slumped over the toilet bowl, her hair matted and puke stained Daphne looks a lot worse for wear.

It's Hazer, halfway hidden behind a shower curtain who speaks up. "I don't think so. As long as we stay with her and monitor her. Don't give her nothing to eat or drink and keep her on her side so she won't choke. If she starts to wheeze again or her breathing slows down, we should call 911."

"You didn't see no one give her an unmarked drink?" She asks Corie.

Corie's eyes dart back and forth as if she's trying to remember, "um, no I don't think so."

Hazer nods, "okay, she should be okay then. She just needs to sleep it off."

Billy looks startled to see her. I'm startled by how much Hazer is talking. I've known her my entire life and this is the most I've heard her speak.

"Damn, what is this, a family reunion?" He then looks at Corie, still crouching on the floor with Daphne and turns slightly pink, "Excuse my language."

Corie looks nonplussed, "it's fine. My mom is a doctor. If you want we can take her to my place and my mother can keep an eye out on her."

Even though she's a child I find myself searching for Hazer's eyes, seeing if this plan sounds okay with her. Right now, she's the one I'm looking to for confirmation.

Billy shakes his head and smiles, "no, you've done enough. We can't trouble you more. Thank you for helping out. We're her family, we got it."

Billy has a good foot on this girl, and probably at least 150 extra lbs. He has the build of an NFL linebacker and if I didn't know that he was the most even tempered creature on God's creation I'd be scared shitless of him.

Corie stands up and points to Daphne who is flapping her arms like wings; "it's no trouble. I'm going with her, she's my friend, she'd do the exact same thing for me if the situation was reverse," she says with assurance.

Loyalty goes a long way with Billy, and I know that he's impressed by her.

"Okay, I parked my truck as close to the driveway as I could."

"I'm not leaving." Everyone looks at Hazer. Her arms are crossed in defiance. She stomps her foot on the bathroom floor. Her voice is cracked and she sounds like a whiny ten year old refusing to leave Toys R' Us until she gets her favorite toy. I know, I once was that kid.

Corie shakes her head. "Unbelievable," she mutters under her breath.

Billy doesn't have time for this because in his soft, even voice he tells her, "Yes you are honey. You're coming with us, if I got to drag you out by that ponytail myself." Billy gives her a smile, but I know he's not messing around and he'd have no problem carrying both Daphne and Hazer over his shoulders like two sacks of potatoes, drunk and defiant as they may be.

"What are you doin' here in the first place Haze? You shouldn't be here." Billy says this in such a non-judgmental voice, in contrast to my own inquiry earlier, Hazer has no problem answering his question.

Hazer shakes her head and in small voice says, "I heard a few guys from Knobby Disk were here and I heard that they're searchin' for a new drummer." Then in a voice so small I can fit it in my pocket, whispers, "I didn't drink or smoke or nothing."

"That's good. Does your Mom know you're here?"

Hazer stands on her tip toes, but even then her eyes only reach his collarbone. It is to his collarbone that my cousin in her black _"Kill Them With Kindness"_ t-shirt says in a voice equally haunting and haunted, " _my mother don't know shit._ "

There are many reasons why I believe in God. There are mysteries which I have found no satisfactory answer except in Him. Like how someone ages from ten to forty in the space it takes to drawl out a five word sentence.

She quickly turns away from us; her shoulders heave and crumble down as she lets out a sob.

"Hazer," Billy reaches out his bandaged hand towards her but she jerks away from his touch and yanks a handful of toilet paper, but doesn't use it.

Hazer turns back to face us and her face is expressionless, the wad of toilet paper tight in her fist, "let's go home," she chokes out. Her eyes are still wet.

* * *

Billy has no problems lifting up Daphne as if she's air and carries her out of the bathroom, Corie propping her head up and me and Hazer following from behind.

We climb into Billy's 4x4, the girls are in the back, Daphne's window is rolled down.

"If you're gonna vomit, aim for your right," Hazer drawls, "I'm not doing laundry again this week."

I put on Bill's "Curtis Construction" baseball cap he has sitting on the dashboard, grateful that my headache is gone.

"You working for Dad again this summer?" As if I don't know the answer already. I bring down the brim as far low as I can.

"Do I got a choice?" There's an edge in Bill's voice that I'm not used to hearing. Out of us four siblings Billy is by far the most even keeled. He and Dad are real close.

He sighs, guilt spreads across his face, his eyes weighted. "Course I wanna work with him, but he always finds some fault in everything I do. He's always looking over my shoulder and of course driving a nail into my hand didn't do nothing to assure him." He holds up his heavily bandaged hand.

"Did it hurt?"

"Nah, the hit to my pride hurt far worse. I've been roofin' houses for him since I was 18 and this is the first real on the job injury I got, but everyone was lookin' at me like I was the wet behind the ears new kid who only got the job cause the boss is my old man. It just don't sit right with me, Tommy."

"Tell him." I pull the hat off my head and toss it back on the dash, watching it bounce with a speed bump.

"Sorry y'all" Billy chuckles and glances at the backseat.

Hazer shoots him the bird. "If she pukes on me, you're payin' my dry cleaning."

A car drives by us "show us your tits!" Daphne tries to show them her tits, but in her inebriated state she confused her breasts with her butt.

"You're paying for my therapy bill too," Hazer deadpans (I think) as she yanks a giggling Daphne back into the truck. Thing about Daphne is that she doesn't have to be drunk to moon a random car on the road.

Billy turns to me, "he won't listen. He's already practically got my name carved into the front door." Billy lets out a heavy sigh.

Much as I love Billy but I can't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards him. It's wrong, but so is this entire night. Bill thinks it's difficult to tell Dad it's hard to work for him? Imagine telling Dad his son, his star athlete, Bible Drill Champion 3 years in a row son, likes boys.

Dad's uncle was gay. Uncle Pat. Uncle Pat the gay uncle. We never met him, but there are a few pictures of him in a box of old photographs. I never heard Dad say anything bad about the man, but having a gay uncle you hardly saw is a whole lot different than having a son. Especially when you are the owner of the one of the most respected home construction companies in Tulsa.

Philippians 4:13. I will change. I don't have to be this. HE will make me whole. I try to think of Lyndsay in her _Brio_ approved prom dress. She has wavy auburn hair. She's a very attractive young woman. I care about her. She's unbelievably smart and caring. She deserves a man who can love her fully.

Daphne falls asleep.

* * *

Daphne is more awake, though her eyelids are sloped over. She's still trashed as all git out cause she's saying stuff that makes no sense. "It's so bad Tommy(hiccup) Paige (hiccup) Drake (hiccup) fuckin' bastard, I'm gonna kill him (hiccup)."

Billy and I make eye contact, Drake is Paige's boyfriend and he's a real nice guy. I feel a bit embarrassed on his behalf. Corie is looking out her window, not paying attention or at least polite enough to pretend she's not paying attention. She probably thinks we're all nuts.

I'm trying not to laugh imagining Daphne, who is the genuinely happiest girl I know, kill someone. For one, Daf is such a klutz she's liable to break both her ankles before she can even draw a gun.

I know I shouldn't egg her on, but I can't help it. "Why are you gonna kill him?"

Daphne just grins, "I am, I am, I am."

Billy and I shake our heads. Billy is far too polite to say anything, but I can tell he thinks Daphne has a screw loose.

Only Hazer turns to Daphne and her mouth open a bit as if she's about to say something. Her eyes are frozen stuck. Hazer should know by now to take what Daffy says with a grain of salt. Billy turns on the radio to K95.5 the country station, catching the last bit of George Strait's "The Best Day."

" _I'm the luckiest man alive_

 _This is the best day of my life"_

Much as I admire Bill, I can't stand country music. It's the one thing I have in common with my oldest brother who I barely talk to. Toby doesn't like country music either. His favorite band is Pearl Jam. I thought about buying him tickets for the tour that swinging through here in the summer, but I can't.

The thought is so ridiculous that a hysterical laugh cackles in me when Daphne cuts my hysteria with a shriek. For a brief second I'm strangely relieved expecting my cousin to start telling a joke or try to say one of her Daffy-ims.

Instead in a voice lacking any mirth, drunken or otherwise, Daphne bellows; "He's the bitch!"

The only sound in the truck is the low and soft strumming guitar coming from the radio and the four of us jerk up in a startle. I feel her fist ram into the back of my seat.

" _He's_ the stupid bitch! _He_ is! Beyotch! Beyotch! Beyotch!"

* * *

Afterwards

 _Someone is banging on my door. I close my Chemistry text, "I'm comin', I'm comin'!" I shout over a rapid pattern of knocks as I almost trip over my inflated Snoopy and almost fall face first onto the 24 pack of Ramen Noodles still in its plastic packaging._

 _I get to the door and look through the peephole. It's a baby. The baby is pulled down and up pops Daphne giving me a Jack Nicholson in The Shining grin._

 _James is wearing a onesie that says "Think I'm Cute? You should See My Aunt!"_

 _"Me and J-Man here were just in the neighborhood. Thought we'd pay you a visit."_

 _I snort, "in the neighborhood from Tulsa?" The baby like almost every male gazes up at Daphne with a hopelessly dazed expression._

 _"Relax, only took 30 minutes, 'course going 90 miles per hour helps."_

 _I shake my head, "Daf…"_

 _She sighs and I swear James sighs with her, "alright, more like 75 miles an hour." She gives me a wink._

 _"Anyways me, James and Paige got you something." She opens up the diaper bag and fishes out a pink muscle shirt that reads "Lookin' for Men in All The Wrong Places."_

 _I cringe, "Daphne, that's not really my style…" Not to mention I'm still in the closet with everyone except my family and about two friends._

 _"No, this is for me, this," she pulls out a baseball cap, "is for you." The hat reads "I'm with Awesome" with a finger pointed like an arrow. I can't help but let out a chuckle._

 _Daphne hands me the baby while she pulls on her shirt. She also pulls her hair over to the side, and then back to a middle part, and then back again._

 _She sits next to me, and puts her arm around me, "Okay," she fumbles for her camera, "smile!"_

 _James is asleep in his Aunt's arms._

 _"I kinda thought you were gay in high school."_

 _I give her a double take and feel a sort of defensiveness move through me, "how? Nobody knew."_

 _"Pfft" Daphne scoffs, "like I'm 'nobody.' No, I've always had a great gaydar."_

 _I roll my eyes, "that's not what 'gaydar' means."_

 _"Well, whatever," she says over the horizon of James' head. "I just always had a feeling." I let that sink in, she was right about Drake._

 _She pauses and takes my hand._

 _"You know we love you, right?" Her face is uncharacteristically serious, almost solemn and it is so full of love._

 _"Yeah," I say softly. As much as I'm grateful for my cousin I wish she would crack a joke or so say something inappropriate or just be the Daphne I've always known. This serious, emotional Daphne is throwing me off my game. And I'm glad that growing up my cousin was the bubbly one because when she is serious she fills the room with an intensity that overwhelms to the point of suffocation._

 _The guilt I feel for all of those times when I wish Daphne would change and 'act better' overwhelms me too._

 _But my hand still in hers and as much as I want to pull away as she looks me in the eyes, I can't; "and we're so proud of you."_

 _"Okay." I finger my beaded cross I wear against my heart and I smile._

 _Her face lights up and I wonder if it physically hurts her to have a grin that big._

 _"So, tell me, what kinda guy are you looking for? I know, you're not looking right now, but you have to let me know so I can be on the hunt."_

 _I shake my head, I'm not really ready to think, let alone talk about dating yet. It's taken me years to get to just to this point with myself. But Daphne gives me a look that says don't be chicken._

 _"Um, well I guess it would be nice if we could meet at church and he's gotta love baseball." I can't help but smile imaging this phantom man. "About my height, swimmer's physique, I guess, and by far the most important thing, my cut off rule, no country music."_

And I think of love.

* * *

 ** _Well, technically I own this since no Outsiders characters appear. J/K S.E. Hinton owns Darry, Soda and Pony, without whom Billy, Tommy, Hazer and Daphne would not exist._**

 ** _And yes, my little Hazer Stargazer and her family are going through a rough patch right now and once I finish The Visit I'll explore it. Until then, I'm leaving ya'll hanging (brahawaha!). ;)_**

 **Thank you SO much for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

**1985**

I inhale humid air through my two nostrils think of my one dead mother. She smoked. And right now I want a cigarette. I'm thirty minutes away from needing one; in that time span even a stoned out Psych 101 could figure out this Freudian puzzle that gasps through my smokeless lungs.

"Pony," Aimee's voice is curt as she and her two piping hot apple pies squeeze me against the cupboard. The previous owner had the ingenious idea to cut the kitchen in half in order to expand the dining room and now I'm wondering how the hell I ever shared that small bed with Soda? Our kitchen is two and half beds long.

Nutmeg and cinnamon thicken the air of the crematorium.

"Smells good," I say in a voice a bit too loud for the size of the room, as if the chasm between us is physical and my voice is the bridge, rather than the one-half the instrument of its demise. My voice is devoid of all emotion. Is it the nicest thing I've said to her in how long? I don't know if I should feel defensive or apologetic when she ignores it.

"It's Sara Lee," she puts down the pies to cool and turned away from me, her blonde hair now a bob and the outline of her bra showing through her shirt, I can hear the annoyance in her voice; as if I should know better and I realize that I can't ever win with her.

Maybe that's the problem. Marriage shouldn't be about winning and losing.

My philosophical musings roll my eyes for me and I fumble through my jeans for a phantom package of smokes. I have nothing.

It was easy, too easy in retrospect to quit. I guess I thought with everything we went through surely there should be one hurdle low enough to jump over, I had Aimee and soon, our baby and that was motivation enough. Now my marriage is over and my ring finger taps something into the counter. It is seven beats before I realize it's the _Winston_ jingle. _A stone. A fuckin' stone could bleed my shallow thoughts dry._

Broken mirrors unable to look at each other.

We fell in love with each other at first sight. I never knew that happened in real life. My dad said that he fell in love with mom at first sight, but she had a different version of the event, "only because my sister Lucy was taken, then you decided to take a glance in my direction."

But they laughed and stayed married. We laughed too, we were three boys and the very idea of romance antithetic to everything we believed in, but the idea of our dad marrying Aunt Lucy, who ended up with an entomologist named Darryl; too bizarre to even picture.

"You'd be a bug man dad, and we'd be girls!" I squealed with the logic that has clearly served me so well over my life.

We met when we were in college. I was her first, something that terrified me since I liked her too much for me to be her first. I wrote and she took photos and we moved in together, and got married and traveled and rented a house and got two pups and had two daughters and moved and bought a house we told ourselves we'd grow into and held our eldest daughter's hands on the first day of Kindergarten and each other's in the ER on the day our youngest jumped off the swing set and landed head first.

And there we were.

Now we argue and get into low grade fights and our house has morphed into a closet. We fought about nothing until nothing is all we ever fought about. We went to counseling and sat on the couch and never held hands.

And here we aren't.

I make a mental note to talk to the attorney about the house, Aimee is keeping it, but she's been real considerate about giving me time to look for a place and making sure that we work out a deal that's fair to both of us.

Paige runs into the kitchen; a reprieve, a startle a reckoning all at once.

"Did you know you'd have to keep the faucet on for forty-five years non-stop to equal the blood your heart pumps?"

"Weird," Aimee laughs and flicks water at our daughter.

"Neat," I hunt through the cabinet for my potato salad recipe, which is just something from _Readers Digest._

Paige, happy with all things weird and neat in equal measure, gives us a gap tooth grin and runs back into the bedroom she shares with Daphne. The girls insisted on sharing a bedroom.

"Your family will be here soon…" her voice ellipses and I wait a few seconds before realizing that she's finished. The worse part about fights is not the yelling but the silent gaps between. "Any way we can cut and run?" Her laugh only partially covers up her thoughts.

"God, I wish." My own laugh rings hollow. I look at my watch, how the hell did we get stuck hosting the family BBQ? And why the hell didn't we cancel? I know, because that would have gotten questioned by the best interrogators this side of the Stasi and maybe I want and need a distraction almost as much as I want a cigarette. Or my mother, who would be disappointed in me or maybe she'd understand. It really doesn't matter now does it?

Maybe it's because were both creative types and deep inside heart of every artist is a masochist beckoning for the sting of the whip.

Aimee wipes her hands up and down her thighs, "it feels wrong," she whispers, mindful of our daughters, Paige and Daphne, and their uncanny ability to pick up everything they shouldn't.

"We could tell call it off, tell everyone I have a stomach flu or something?"

But Aimee shakes her head, "it's done, it'll be fine," then she pauses, "besides, I like your family."

I look at Aimee and for the split second we are back. We're back to being a team, holding each other's secrets and lies. I try to think of something comforting to say. But I have nothing to give either of us. Maybe I never did.

 _If the door between us is closed, than at least we should close it with tenderness._

But my throat is dry and mouth says nothing. All I can do is stare and watch the clock speed faster, it's two minutes to 12 and Darry and his crew will be here soon.

She's already gone.

* * *

Good thing I didn't have any money betting on my oldest brother's punctuality.

Soda, Mary and Hazer arrive first. Soda's jeans have holes in them; Mary is in tight black spandex and one of Soda's shirts. Hazer has pearl earrings. My brother is never early to anything.

"You have such a gorgeous house!" Mary exclaims, as if she hasn't been here a million times.

I look around at our house, there are books in every room in every place except the book shelves, the girls' paintings cover almost every wall, knick-knacks sit on Mom and Dad's coffee table. I have nothing.

But I give them a hug and a grin. Except Hazer, who clings to her mother.

* * *

Soda is wrapped up in blankets, his head bandaged and he moans out dutifully to Daffy's command as he lays on a Cabbage Patch sleeping bag.

"Ohh,"

"You're suppose'ta be in pain, cry more!" And somewhere the spirit of Louis B. Mayer is awoken from his slumber, giddy about getting to tell one more Jackie Coogan that his puppy died.

"Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" Soda moans and I smirk at him. "Pretty sure that sound is still illegal in some states."

"Daddy, you're not helping. Please, the patient is dying; it's very serious and extremely sad." Extremely is Daffy's new favorite word.

Soda turns red and his lips vibrate to keep him from cracking up.

"Sorry, Doctor Daphne. Hey, what's Hunt doin' here?" I look at our golden retriever, his chin resting on a Fischer-Price doctor bag.

"Hunt's our nurse," Paige explains, disappointed in me for not figuring it out. "Rex was fired for not listening to Doctor Daphne."

"Of course."

Paige flips through her medical dictionary she bought at a garage sale near Darry and Cathy's house.

"Okay, Dr. Daphne, the patient has been diagnosed with Coronary artery disease, we can't waste time here. He's on death's door as we speak; this is a very delicate operation that will involve…" Paige goes on to slowly but confidently read the paragraph. She hardly makes any mistakes.

While the girls frantically look through the doctor bag, and Daphne puts on a pair of dishwashing gloves, Soda glances up at me his eyes wide and his mouth in shock, "I am?!"

"Shut up," I try to suppress the laugh that will surely bring Paige's wrath on me.

The girls turn around and Soda goes back to being a step away from the pearly gates, his tongue falling out the side of his mouth.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! He just gave birth to a cat too!" Daphne triumphantly holds up a Garfield that Rex chewed its tail clean off.

"It's a miracle!" Paige exclaims with a voice that could give her a spot as the next Tammy Faye, "and her umbilical cord has already fallen off."

Soda can't hold it in anymore and I can't either and the next thing I know Soda is holding his hand out to catch my ass from falling on top of him.

Then I look at my girls. Their backs to me huddled in a whisper. Paige puts her arms around Hunt, inviting him into the fold. They are sweet, my little girls.

Soda pulls hard on my jeans cuff, raises his head up and whispers, "you alright?" His stare is hard and compassionate. I shrug. I'm not fooling anybody but who gives a fucking shit.

Paige looks over her clipboard, "don't forget you and Mommy have an appointment this evening." She looks a bit sheepish before whispering, slightly embarrassed, "I know it's only pretend. Daphne likes it." Paige likes it too, but she's getting at that age where her friends are less and less likely to want to play in the world of her imagination.

"You'll both be getting operated on, I hope you don't extremely die!" Daphne happily shouts.

* * *

I give Cathy a quick hug as Darry and I step to the side. For the briefest of split seconds I wonder _what if._

I try to match his grin in width if not substance and run my hand through my hair as if that will distract from what I'm sure is a warn, tightly drawn expression.

Getting through today will be harder than I thought and now I regret not playing the stomach flu route. Not that my brothers would believe me.

"You lost weight, huh Pony?" his eyebrows furrow slightly. I shrug. Soda made the same comment earlier.

Soda who miraculously survived his operation sits crossed legged on the floor, balancing a paper plate of cheese and crackers on his lap.

"Want some?" before I have time to say anything he puts five crackers in my hand. I'm not hungry.

'Where's Patrick?" Cathy asks as their four make their way into my living room; C.D. makes an immediate bee line for the back yard. "Hey," his Dad calls out, "stay inside and say hi to everyone."

C.D. looks around and crosses his arms, "what? Patrick doesn't have to be here? This blows."

I can hear Darry's deep in breath before I can see his chest or shoulders rise, a dangerous sign. He gets into his son's face, and his finger is right at the tip of C.D's nose, "stop it," he says in a low, scrubbed harsh whisper.

Ah, there's the Darry we know and love.

"…Hopefully doin' something illegal," Soda casually shouts back to Cathy; C.D.'s glares at his dad.

"Yeah, well you still got to be here, bud," Darry gives C.D. a pat on the back, "chin up, buckaroo." C.D. stares straight up at the ceiling, puts his arm straight out and begins to walk like a zombie. And I'm no longer the weirdest Curtis.

"Ow, my neck," he quietly moans, gingerly rubbing it.

Soda shakes his head, his bandage still on, crumbs of Ritz falling down his lips. "Least I hope so Cathy. The kid is so damn good, I'm beginnin' to doubt he's mine," the crumbs fall into the socks he's got wrapped around his wrists as bandages.

"Hmm," Mary with Hazer in her lap snatches the box of Ritz from Soda's hands, "like Daddy, not like son, huh babes?" Soda's head rolls back into a laugh.

I smile, but I can't help but feel an unease poking out from the edge of tight lips. There's more genuine warmth hugged around that one tease than anything Aimee and I have shared in months. But I play the good host even as I am failing in being the good husband (was I ever?) and laugh. _Ex-husband. Soon to be ex-husband. Extremely Ex-Husband._

"I want to see the dogs, can I see the dogs? Where are they?" Tommy asks someone, Daphne I think.

I wonder how long I keep up the charade. I look at Aimee to see how she's faring and she and Karen are talking away, I can tell Karen is talking about tennis because that's the only time I see my niece getting that enthusiastic.

"Oops, sorry Mom," Karen says with a giggle when the demonstration of her backhand knocks her knuckles right into Cathy's breast.

"And to think I got an infection trying to nurse you," Cathy says with a smirk and an affectionate brush of Karen's hair. When was Cathy ever this easy going? Or funny? But she always was. There are times when I find myself starting to tell Cathy about this girl I dated in high school, before I stop and realize, I'm talking about her.

"Do you got an infection?" Daffy pipes up. "Me and Paige are doctors, we can fix it."

"Shut up, you're embarrassing me," Paige says, her ears turning slightly pink.

"No honey, I'm fine," Cathy says quickly to Daffy who is trying to do a headstand and not paying any attention.

"Paige," Aimee and I both scold in unison.

"I'm sorry Daphne," her voice is sincere. She turns to Billy who is giving Hunt a hard belly rub, "Do you want play Parcheesi or I have Uno?" Poor Billy stammers, trying to get out it. I can't blame him. My daughter really isn't a fan of the whole 'lose with dignity' concept.

"Play with her," Darry orders his son.

I turn back to Mary.

"Aww come on Mare, Soda's a Prince. Prince at cheatin' at cards, Prince at fightin'…" Corny joke aside, I feel relieved that right now no one, not even Soda, can tell what's really going on with me. Maybe I can make it through this day.

Soda gasps in mock horror and reaches behind him for Hazer's ears, tickling them.

"Cover ya ears my darlin'! They be spreadin' a heap of lies bout your Daddy, girl!" He sounds exactly like Dad did when he did impressions of our Ozark relatives. Hazer actually lets out a laugh, which makes all of us crack up, Mary and Soda, the loudest. Mary and Soda, with Hazer sitting on Mary's lap between them, laugh in different octaves; Mary's laugh like sandpaper, Soda's soft and gentle. But they laugh in perfect harmony.

Cathy pulls Aimee close to her, "does that baby have on a petticoat?" They look over at Hazer who can barely sit up on her mother's lap with the weight of lace billowing from her.

Aimee nods and chuckles, "with little hearts on it and earrings, those PEARL earrings," she coos, bringing her hand up to her heart. Her voice is easy and genuine. How the hell does she do this?

"I just can't," Cathy shakes her head smiling, "that baby is too precious."

Darry gives me a pat on the back and a mammoth grin, "hey better watch it, looking at babies is all it took to get Cathy pregnant. Watch out or the next thing ya know you have a third kid on the way."

The emptiness of my chuckle echoes through me. Oh believe me Darry that ain't happening.

Aimee is standing up and bouncing Hazer up and down. Cathy whispers something to her and for a brief second there's a look of shock in her eyes before going back soft smile. She really does have a nice smile. I've forgotten.

* * *

I'm fairly decent around the grill, but I was pleasantly surprised at how well everything turned out. It was hard looking into those flames and not be grabbed with desire for a smoke.

Conversations run around me all throughout lunch and I struggle to catch up, to play the good host, good brother that I'm supposed to be.

"We're putting a new layer on the deck when we get home, Dad's gonna let me use his power tools." Darry looks at Billy with an incredulous stare.

"Yeah, Daddy's gonna let me use them too." Tommy says proudly.

"Oh am I now?" Darry playfully flicks the back of Tommy's head.

"Have a charity you want us to donate in your memory in lieu of flowers?" Mary asks Darry with a laugh.

"Might as well take advantage of free labor."

"Arbeit macht frei!" C.D. shouts in an exaggerated German accent.

"That is _so_ inappropriate C.D, that's what the _Nazis_ said," Karen gasps and inhales a fly on her in breath.

"Who are Not Sees?" my youngest asks. C.D. too busy laughing at his sister, thankfully, ignores her.

"Danke Schoen, Karen Ilse Koch!" and Karen rolls her eyes, gulps down half a glass of lemonade. Oblivious to that her brother has just referred to her as an infamous Nazi war criminal. He mispronounces the last name.

Billy snorts a low laugh that turns his cheeks pink. "Cock" he mutters under his breath and laughs again, a bit of snot escaping from his nostril. I look to see if my girls heard what he said, but Paige's head is deep in _Superfudge_ and Daphne is deconstructing my one claim to culinary fame-the potato salad.

"C.D. swore" Tommy pipes up again. Karen and even Billy roll their eyes at him. Tommy slips Rex a small piece of apple pie as Rex nuzzles into him. "You're a good boy! A very good boy," Tommy gushes and for a brief second, as one youngest to another, I can't help but identify with his loneliness. I tell myself that I should make an effort to spend time with my youngest nephew.

"He likes you," I say to Tommy, pointing at Rex, patiently resting his nose on Tommy's thigh. What I don't add is that Rex would like Ilse Koch if she came bearing food.

Tommy ignores me and lets out a huge burp and laughs so hard, for a brief second it looks like he's going into convulsions, which makes Billy and Daphne laugh and Rex to jump up and run around the yard.

"That was a good one buddy," Soda praises. Darry gives Soda a glare which is only met with a shrug. Tommy beams at Soda.

"Thomas," Darry's voice is firm, but I can see the sides of his lips twinkle into a smile. Tommy's a real cute kid, he looks like someone who should be in a commercial for _Life_ cereal. Tommy,unlike his eldest brother is smart enough to know when he's licked and apologizes.

"That's disgusting," Karen shakes her head and runs her fingers through her hair.

"Karen..." Cathy's voice is a warning.

Karen shrugs her shoulders, "what? It IS."

"You were the one who ate a fly," C.D. retorts and to my surprise it's Billy who starts softly singing, "I don't know why she swallowed a fly-perhaps she'll die!"

But no one hears Billy because my daughter shouts in a loud voice. "I know a lot of swears, mostly from Daddy." Daffy very helpfully added to our conversation. Everyone, except Aimee, laughs.

"I did not Kapo!" C.D. says in spiteful tone to his youngest brother. I'm guessing he's reading _The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich_ right now.

Paige doesn't say anything, too engrossed in her book. I lean and give her a kiss on top of her head. "You doing okay, baby?" Her eyes dart across the page and she gives me a half nod.

"Can we not talk about this at a FAMILY dinner?" Cathy scowls at her two oldest. But I want to them to go on, it's a distraction.

Aimee brings out the apple pies and Daphne leans into her slice and begins licking it before biting into it.

"Daphne Michelle, what the he…heck are you doing?"

In a tiny voice her fingers clawed up in front of her face, she speaks, "I'm not Daphne, I'm a little itty bitty kitty cat. MEOW!"

Soda and Darry are trying not to laugh, even while Darry takes the Redi Whip away from C.D., his entire slice drenched.

"I hope there's enough for the rest of us," Karen mutters under her breath.

"You want some of mine?" Billy takes his fork and scrapes the whipped cream off his pie.

"No you're not, you're a little girl, eat with a fork or don't eat at all." I say in the most patient voice I can muster. Darry gives me a smirk and I'm sure he's remembering some dinner from long ago when I did the exact same thing. Hopefully I wasn't fourteen.

Aimee, who is handing Karen a napkin shakes her head at me, "Pony, really, who cares? Let her be," her tone is all bite. Everyone is looking at Aimee and then at me. Aimee rarely loses her cool in public and if it were Mary or even Cathy, the moment would go by unremarked. But since it's sweet, never loses her temper (yeah right) Aimee you'd think she cold-cocked baby Hazer from everyone's reaction. My jaw locks.

I'm not about to get into an argument, not now, not here.

Daphne sticks her tongue in her lemonade, lapping it up like a cat.

I grab the cup and place my hand on her shoulder, "don't," and try to give Aimee a dirty look, but she and Mary are talking in conspiratorial whispers, going on about who slept with who in _Fleetwood Mac._ Daphne continues to lick the ice cubes in her glass.

I take a huge heap full of apple pie and stuff my mouth.

"This pie is delicious," Mary says between bites, "who made it?"

"Sara Lee." I say tersely, "you want to thank anyone for this pie? Thank Miss. Sara Lee." I pick up my napkin and wipe my youngest daughter's chin.

What I wouldn't give to engulf my lungs in flames.

* * *

The kids, except Hazer, are outside.

We're back in my living room, the six of us. It's easy to tell which husband and wife belong to each other.

Soda's sitting on the floor. His legs stretched in front of him and his toes wrap around the leg of our parents' coffee table. His socks are wrapped around his wrists.

He's casually holding his daughter above his head with one arm. Hazer has brown hair and dark brown eyes. She doesn't look at all like Soda, except when she flashes a rare gummy grin.

Thing is, her smile is nothing like my brother's it has a grave set to it, _Whistler's Mother_ without the whistle. That only cracks us up even more, only Soda and Mary would escape the cocaine polyester excess of the 1970s to find themselves parents of that most auspicious of figures, the American Puritan.

He pulls her down to his knee and bounces her up and down, every so often injecting himself into the conversation, looking at us and grinning. And it's back. His grin is back.

But one eye is always on his kid. And his eyes are more serious, more somber, more sensitive and without a doubt, more jaded and merciless than the eyes that raised me.

Mary is reclining on the arm chair; her bare feet are on one end, her head resting against the other. Mary is still all skin and bones even after giving birth to their daughter. Every now and then she flashes Hazer a grin. Her grin has an edge to it.

I used to think her grin was a bit unnerving. It reminded me of Sylvia, Angela, even Steve, smiles doubled as carving knives ready to for the kill.

But Hazer doesn't seem to care, if anything her eyes brighten up even more when she sees her mama smiling at her.

Mary has on 3 necklaces. A silver cross, a long one made out of turquoise beads and another plain gold chain. She has on blue hoop earrings. I wonder how she manages to wear the dangling pieces of jewelry with a baby around. When Paige and Daphne were that age they grabbed and pulled at everything on sight.

They look casual and relaxed, comfortable, but in their own little world with Patrick and now Hazer at the center of it.

Darry and Cathy are sitting on the 'nice' couch, the couch Aimee's mom gifted to us for our last (and now really last) wedding anniversary. The couch is brown leather, with a reclining seat.

Darry and Cathy look like the power couple they are. In contrast to Soda and Mary, Mary is now draping her legs across Soda's midsection while Soda pretends to take a bite out of her leg; Darry and Cathy are sitting straight up on the couch. They both have perfect posture, but if you look down you can see their feet wrap around each other, how Cathy's toes curl into his.

They hold hands.

Then there's the purple couch. The couch we got from Randy as a wedding gift. He dumpster dived to pull it up for us. We keep it for sentimental reasons than for anything else. I hadn't thought about the furniture. How we're going to divide it. I don't care, furniture, even the house, that doesn't matter to me. All that I care about are my daughters.

Aimee and I sit down, we don't touch.

"I can't believe Rock Hudson has AIDS" Cathy says out of nowhere, "honestly, I had no idea that he was even a homosexual, I should have, the cute ones always are."

Mary looks at Cathy like she's growing another head. "Really, Cat? You're kidding me? You didn't know? Doris Day was his beard." A while ago this would have been the point of awkward tension between them, but now they laugh and go over the list of Hollywood actors who may or may not be gay.

"It's okay Cathy, our grandma thought Liberace was just on the cusp of finding a nice young girl to marry," Darry chortles.

She gives him a playful slap, "not helping! Even I know that!"

"It's fucking sick how people with AIDS are treated. It's bad enough people are dying, but they're being treated like leapers. The government don't give a shit. You don't think that if we all got sick they wouldn't be putting money into research and trying to find a cure? But 'cause it's happening to gay men and junkies, everyone looks the other way."

I'm taken aback. I never expected a speech this passionate or political from Mary, who thought Nixon's first name was, for whatever reason, Charles. But I know Mary has a lot of gay friends. I never thought about it, I guess never had a reason. Here's the kick in the pants. No matter how miserable you are, no matter how much your life sucks, there's always someone else who is worst off.

"We were junkies," Soda said softly and I notice, though I don't think he did this consciously, he's covering Hazer's ears.

Mary shakes her head, "it's not the same. You know what; I wouldn't be surprised if the CIA had something to do with it, that's what my friend thinks." From the tone of her voice, I can tell Mary believes it too.

"The CIA? That doesn't make any sense. I get the impetus behind it, when bad things happen people need to assign blame, to make sense of the devastation, to regain a sense of control. But just because something is horrible, doesn't mean there's a conspiracy behind it. Sometimes bad things happen, and it's no one's fault, it..." Cathy breaks in, her voice resolute and firm, but polite. I give her a small grin, but Soda is speaking over her and back at Mary.

"Mm, Tulip, now that's a fellow who don't got a screw loose." Soda spins his finger on the side of his head.

My brother turns to Cathy. "Aww, shit darlin' I'm sorry, I interrupted you. What were you saying?"

Cathy didn't seem upset, "no, I was done."

Soda bites his bottom lip like a guilty child, "are you sure? Cause I do want to hear what you have to say."

"Be careful what you wish for," Darry deadpans. But the look between him and Cathy is drenched in love.

"Don't forget Haitians and Hemophiliacs," Aimee adds.

"What honey? You're right. I forgot about the Haitians and Hemophiliacs. That's right. And Tulip don't got a screw loose, Soda."

Mary shakes her head goes on to tell us about a teacher she read about who was fired from his job.

Darry, who is doing an impressive job of staying quiet, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "I don't know, I mean, I don't think we should discriminate, but teaching is different. I wouldn't feel comfortable with someone with AIDS teaching my kid, they say you can't get it through casual contact, but until we know for sure, I'm not there yet and…" his voice takes on a surer tone, "I'm never gonna be. Not when it comes to my kids."

Mary is glaring at Darry. Soda has a bated smirk on his lips, waiting for all hell to break loose.

Darry lifts up his hands, a wine glass in the left one, in half surrender, "and it's got nothing to do with being homosexual …"

Mary sits Hazer down on a blanket, takes out powder, wipes and a diaper from the bag and changes her on the middle of the floor; lying flat on the floor with Hazer and tickling her, she hands Soda the diaper. "You're getting the next one babe," and from her tone I wouldn't want to be Soda if he didn't change the next diaper.

Tommy walks in and plugs his nose, then with his shirt lifted to cover his nose, begins to speak, "Uncle Pony, Aunt Aimee, Daffy threw up."

Aimee and I stand up from the couch at the exact moment and rush out to our daughter.

"She okay?" Soda asks with concern as Aimee walks past him to take Daphne to a bathroom to clean up. I nod, apparently she was eating worms. And the sentence doesn't make any more sense saying it out loud.

"I'm worried about Patrick," Soda says quietly. He pauses, and pulls a frayed string from his ankle and around his finger, a bit too tight. "He's a real good kid, and that's kinda what scares me. He's gone through so much in his life, but he keeps everything so bottled up, ya know?"

Patrick had some trouble adjusting when he first met his dad, the fact that his mother was suffering from severe depression at the time, made it worse. But Patrick is great, he's polite and in my eyes, has it as together as you can expect from a 17 year old kid, never mind someone who survived what he did. But looking at Soda, now I'm worried that I missed something. Wouldn't be the first time.

Darry looks concerned but shakes his head, "he's a strong kid Soda and he knows he can go to you with anything."

Soda isn't pacified, "I ain't sure. It's funny, I was so worried about him turnin' out like me, and now that he's the opposite, I'm worried even more." Soda laughs a dry, empty laugh devoid of any humor. Mary rubs the back of his neck.

Soda kisses Hazer's head and I can actually feel him become calmer. The baby really does soothe him. As much as I'm truly happy my brother has his kids, for their sake, I hope they never know how much their dad needs them. It's too much for a child to take in. Then I think what Aimee and I are doing to _our_ children and I have no other place to look but down.

"We're taking a road trip," Mary bursts out into the heavy silence.

"When?"

"Leaving in about a week. I just need some time with my son, away from his mom and Tulsa. Show him our old stompin' grounds, do whatever I can to snatch him outta this." Soda wrings his hands together and the string is wrapped so tight around his finger.

"You really think Patrick's depressed?" Cathy's look hoovers between disbelief and concern.

Soda shakes his head as if whipping the thought out of his mind, "not like Anna, I mean, thank God it ain't that bad. But I don't ever want him to get to that point. That's why I'm doin' this, to prevent my son from turning out like us. We took him to a therapist, you know, when he was a kid. I'm thinking about taking him back, but thing is, I don't really know what's going on with him, or if there's anything wrong. But I just feel it."

I notice Aimee isn't saying anything. She's pretty quiet even when she's comfortable, but I wonder what she sees when she looks at the five of us? I move over to sit closer to her, even as I'm not sure why.

"He's dating Angela's daughter, right?" asks Cathy who at this point is slightly tipsy.

"Crystal, she's such a sweetie," Mary says and I can tell that she probably already has their wedding planned out. "She's good for him."

"He's good for her too," Soda's voice is defensive.

"Is Tim still in prison?" I add just to say something. Who gives a fuck.

Soda shakes his head, "nah, he's out. I've seen him 'round town a few times, he seems to be staying on the straight and narrow, says his PO is a pain in his ass though."

Cathy, who is clearly having way more fun than the rest of us put together, rolls her eyes, "yeah, if I was a pain, that's just where I'd want to spend my time, in Tim Shepard's ass." That's the first time I heard her say the word ass. I let out a low, hysterical snort.

"Nazis, AIDS and the contents of Tim Shepard's ass, we really do know how to have a good time," Cathy says dryly. That made me laugh, the first genuine laugh since I was watching Paige and Daphne operate on Soda. "Anyone got any other inspiring topics to talk about?"

 _Divorce, Cathy, we could talk about divorce._

* * *

The kids are back and I don't know if it's her children or the wine wearing off, but Cathy is back in mom mode. I feel a shadow follow me into the kitchen and at first I think it's Aimee, but it's Cathy. She looks at me with concern.  
"Pony, this isn't any of my business, but are you okay?"

Maybe it's because I've been holding so much in myself and need to let it go, or maybe it's cause I'm an asshole. I don't care. But I move in closer to my sister-in-law, and whisper in her ear, "Aimee and I are getting a divorce. No one knows, not even the girls." The moment I mention the word 'girls' I feel bile run up my throat; I quickly swallow it back down. Aimee and I promised each other we wouldn't tell anyone about the divorce until we told Paige and Daphne. Just one more way I let everyone, myself included, down.

But Cathy just isn't anyone. I've known her since I was fifteen.

Her eyes grow wide her mouth drops open into an audible gasp, but because this is Cathy it takes only a split second for her to regain her composure.  
"Ponyboy, I'm so sorry." Then her eyes widen, "oh my gosh, I actually teased Aimee about you two having another kid." She turns pale.

I give her a slight shrug, "you and my brother both."

"Really?" She looks mortified.

"Yeah," my voice turns urgent, "but you can't tell anyone, okay?"

She nods with the sincerity of a Girl Scout earning her badge for trustworthiness, "of course." And I take a sigh, of course I can trust Cathy.

"And Pony? I really am sorry." When I look at her face, and into her compassion and empathy, I know she means it. That's Cathy. I'm about to turn around when I feel her fingers press into my forearm, "do you need an attorney? Cause Darry and I would be happy to help you find a good one." That's also Cathy.

Everyone is gone and Aimee looks over at me, "I don't know how we're going to tell everyone." What's left unsaid is thickens the air. Neither one of us know how we're going to tell Daphne and Paige. Guilt races through me and for a split second I'm reliving the goodbyes, hoping that Aimee didn't pick up on the way Cathy hugged the girls, and her, longer than normal. The one thing I promised Aimee. The last thing I promised her as her husband, and I couldn't keep it.

"We'll get through it, we have no choice."

How did this happen to us?

* * *

The girls didn't forget about our appointment. We're lying on the floor, my toes touching one of Daphne's Barbies.

"What's up Docs?" I say in a piss poor impression of Bugs Bunny when my girls enter the room. They laugh anyway.

"You need heart transplants," Paige's voice is somber.

"I'm relieved we have such dedicated and experienced doctors on the case," Aimee says gravely.

"Hold hands," Daphne orders, "or else it won't work."

We pause, hesitate for half a second.

I feel her hand in mine. I feel her pulse. I feel her squeeze my hand. I squeeze back.

I don't know who I'm going to be without her. Who am I when my soul doesn't belong to me?

Paige flips through her dictionary. "You've been diagnosed with ' _cardianesthesia_ ', she sounds out the word. "An absence of sensation in the heart."

"What does that mean?" Daphne asks while pulling out a wedgie.

"It means they can't feel anything. But first I need you to confirm, Dr. Daphne."

"Aye Aye Dr. Paige," Daphne takes her stethoscope and leans over Aimee and then over me.

"Nope there's nothing there."

And maybe there never was.

* * *

Hoo Boy. Ugh. I'm so sorry. But thank you for reading, I really do appreciate it.


	9. Soda and Mary get Schooled

His son Hawk, his baby, is all him. Too much like him. Like watching a runaway train right before the derailment and be powerless to stop it. Not that he'd tell Mary that. Hawk's her baby.

The classroom's bright. The yellow butcher paper sun on the window can't prevent the real sun from poking through. Setting half the room in a blinding glare. Everything in bright primary colors. Tiny red and blue chairs.

"Soda, look." In the second row, left hand side: a truck, drawn with a wild scribble. Crayon spurting outside the lines. If Soda's a different kind of dad he'd notice the other drawings are neater, tidier. He leans forward. Looks intensely at his son's picture. At two stick figures. One with detached arms holding the steering wheel. The other stick figure, smaller, a mess of brown hair, a big grin. The larger figure, with those detached arms, an even bigger grin.

Soda knows it's him because of the truck.

His heart hurts.

Mary notices the other drawings and fumes, "why the hell is his drawing hidden away in the corner? No one can see it. She _hates_ Hawk."

"You found it. Ain't that the important thing?"

She rolls her eyes.

But when Miss. Avery comes in, she welcomes his hand. The way he wraps it around. They are a united front.

Mary wants to be hostile. The entire car ride, Soda every now and then nodding and giving vocal tics of affirmation. She ran her mouth. Who the hell was this woman telling them there was something wrong with Hawk? That's not how she phrased it over the phone, but it's what she meant. Mary learned that from Soda, how to read people. The paranoia, is all hers.

Miss. Avery has unkempt red hair, dazed blue eyes, a voice enthusiastic in all it's nerves.

"Mrs. Curtis, Mr. Curtis, thank you so much for coming." Smart enough to know who's running this show.

Her pit bull mother instincts take a weary half step back. This could be her daughter. Sure, she'd had to screw Bozo to make it happen, but she's young enough to be her daughter. And Mary old enough to be her mother.

Which means Mary Curtis feels, for a _second_ , _old_. Even though she has a son in Kindergarten who can't color inside the lines.

She'll listen to the lies coming out of Miss. Avery's mouth. _Then_ she'll pounce.

Mary clenches and unclenches and reclenches her fists. She wants Soda's hand. They're in his pockets.

Forty-three when she had Hawk and the entire time she was pregnant, most of it on bed rest, she feared Hawk would have problems, a bigger fear that he wouldn't be born at all.

But he was and the joy he brings to her can't be measured. He is kindhearted and funny, boisterous and rough and tumble and gave the best hugs. The kind that when his arms squeeze around her with all that _love_ she doesn't think it's possible for her to love another person as much or as deeply; even as she does.

He drives her nuts with worry. Climbing things of great heights and jumping off things of greater heights. Once, put a pot on his head and began spinning in a circle, imitated a monkey. "Little man was dropped on his head," Soda deadpanned. But put a spaghetti strainer on top of his own head and joined their son. Mary wheezed from laughing so hard.

She moves towards a blue chair. Pictures it stuck to her ass, like something on a sitcom.

"Think we're supposed to sit in _those_ chairs," he points to the desk and in front, two, adult sized chairs. With pillows for backings.

Soda waits for Miss. Avery and his wife to take a seat. Runs his palms down his thighs.

Hawk is friendly and enthusiastic (she says that twice). Mary listens for the _but._ Keeps her fist clenched.

 _Fidgeting_.

Hawk's parents sigh with relief.

That's all?

Miss. Avery looks at them with pointed concern.

"He's a boy." Mary says, unusually condescending and curt. Drawing a look from Soda.

Miss. Avery blushes a sort of pink and Soda feels sort of sorry for her. Not easy dealing with parents like him and his wife. No one wants to hear bad news about their kids. He can see the wheels turning, Miss. Avery trying to figure out how to say what she really means. Instead it sounds like she's on stage, trying to recite lines of a script.

Cut the bull and get to the damn point. But he wasn't raised, isn't raising his son, to talk to a woman that way.

They want to test Hawk for something called ADHD. Which stands for something called Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Which sounds like Hawk. Who's a lot like Soda.

Mary makes a noise something like a _hmm_ when she hears _disorder._

 _Why isn't Soda? Soda is the peacemaker-usually, but ruthless when it comes to protecting his family. Why is he just staring?_

"Who's _they_?" Mary lunges forward, a fierce look in her eyes.

Miss. Avery, meek, nervous, blinking; continues talking, "the guidance counselor and _Special_ Education Administrator."

"There's nothing ' _special_ ' about my son." It's the only time Mary Curtis will say that her children aren't special. "What, he's eating paste now?" Her laugh is almost catching.

When she gets riled up, she can misfire, aiming them at people she'd never in a million years want to hurt. And before she can say more, he speaks.

Not sure what to say. What he's supposed to say. He used to know. But thinks of the drawing and wants to defend his wife, his son.

"Miss Avery, we appreciate you taking time to talk with us. But, we know him, he's high strung..." (Mary snorts), " _but_ ," he adds with emphasis, "he's a real smart kid and..."

"He can write his full name."

"Few other words too," he adds slyly.

Course the son of Mary Curtis would know how to write (and spell) a cuss.

"It has nothing to do with intelligence, Mr. Curtis." Despite her kind tone, despite the fact that Soda _knows_ there are many different _kinds_ of smarts, he feels like he did when he was in school: dumb.

 _His children_ aren't dumb.

"But it's got to do with our son," Mary yanks the conversation out of their hands. "It's _Kindergarten,_ think kids are needing to burn off some energy?"

Her question ends in an exclamation.

Soda nods. Hawk's confined to a small room. Soda feels terrible sympathy for his little boy. He pictures him, legs kicking under the table, his little body _fidgeting_ , looking out the window at the playground. Patrick and Hazer needed, thrived, in the quiet; not Hawk. In the periphery he sees the orange and yellow paper rays. Reminds him of bars on a cell. He needs freedom.

There's a conversation going on, and on Mary's "maybe this isn't your line of work." he's jerked back into it.

Soda's teeth grit together, air slurping in between. _"Jesus."_

Miss. Avery blinks. He's afraid she's going to start crying. He doesn't want to feel sorry for her. Doesn't want to see her cry. Doesn't want to feel anything too complicated. If he still can. Used to be he felt too much, the way he picked up on others emotions like they belonged to him.

 _The way he was so many different people._

 _Selfish_ -that's what he was.

Looks closer. Realizes what at first could be mistaken for the beginning of tears is a type of seething waiting to come out.

He recognizes it.

* * *

A/N: S.E. Hinton owns.

Thank you for reading. :)


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